


In Death, Never Submit

by Vevici



Series: On the Warden-Commander Vie Mahariel [3]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: F/M, Gen, Mild Sexual Content, Multi, Novelization, might become explicit sexual content, zevran/warden in later chapters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-30
Updated: 2020-02-28
Packaged: 2021-01-13 04:41:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 50,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21238349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vevici/pseuds/Vevici
Summary: Vie Mahariel is without her friends and family, and she is expected to fight in a war alongside humans. She has to gather an army, learn about the world of humans, play the game of politics, and most importantly, find her first love, Tamlen. But what of her shared destiny with fellow Grey Warden Alistair? And her deep bond with the assassin Zevran? Who exactly is Vie Mahariel in this larger, more chaotic world?Alistair has finally found his place in the world, only for the world to crumble under his feet. As the Blight encroaches, he is forced to come to terms with who he is, and, ready or not, he must choose who he will become.Zevran Arainai of the Antivan Crows expects nothing and takes whatever the day gives him. When he thought he'd get nothing more from life, his mark unexpectedly offers him the world.Leliana chose a peaceful path, yet the world is wild and dangerous and beautiful. It is this world that her vision leads her to. A road of adventure, friendship, righteousness, and blood.Morrigan has known the dark side of life since she was a girl, but only now will she know freedom. What will she do with it? And what is she willing to do to keep it?





	1. The Dalish Elf

**Author's Note:**

> This is a direct sequel to "Shadows and Reflections." But "In Death, Never Submit" can stand alone, so reading the first isn't required to follow along with the sequel.
> 
> As always, please feel free to point out typos and grammar mistakes and such. I always miss some no matter what.
> 
> And I very much welcome all feedback.

_ If this is what the Creators intended for you da’len, meet your destiny with your head held high. No matter where you go, you are Dalish. Never forget that. _

Mahariel would never forget. She couldn’t; not when the parting words of the Keeper seeped into her thoughts as much as the vallaslin bound itself to her skin. Not when the Keeper’s words were tied to grief, and regret, and hollowness; emotions that made marks as permanent as the scar on her chest, burned there by the melted casing of the hollow ironbark pendant left to her by parents she never knew. She was Dalish. She was without her friends and family, her clan, but she was Dalish. She stood under the stone arch that marked the entrance of a shemlen military camp, but she was Dalish. When the Joining comes with nightfall, she would be duty-bound to remain with the Grey Wardens; but she would still be Dalish.

With a deep breath, Mahariel squared her shoulders, lifted her chin, and strode into the open, sprawling grounds of the gathered armies of Ferelden. What struck her first was the sporadic yet inescapable noise of so many people in one area; there were shouts, laughter, orders, chanting, barking, moaning. Humans rushed here and there: often alone, with a paper in hand; sometimes in pairs, weapons at the ready. It was a wonder that these people seemed to understand each other when Mahariel could barely hear the breath that passed her cracked lips. She cast her eyes upward for a tree to climb or a raised platform—whatever it took to get her above the clamor—but this part of the ruins of Ostagar had been laid flat and open by time. She could see columns in the distance, but those seemed to be deep within the camp. 

Immediately near the stone arch was a detached cluster of tents ringed by a knee-high wall made from tightly-packed stones. Aside from the physical distance of this group that set it apart from the rest of the camp, there was a hint of electricity in the air, a certain buzzing that became louder the closer Mahariel got. So she went closer still. More than a dozen knights with full plate armor dotted the area; Mahariel thought them to be knights for their rigid stances and palpable focus. One knight in particular—one who guarded the entrance to the enclosure, kept his eyes firmly on Mahariel as she passed, fingers tightening around the hilt of his sword. She was about to tell him that he had no business staring at her when a green light flashed in the camp behind him. Curiosity swept Mahariel to the low wall, craning her neck to see past the red tents. She only glimpsed a trio of robed people—two women and one elderly man—around a table when an arm struck out and gently but firmly pushed her back.

“The mages would like _ not _ to be disturbed,” the knight who had eyed her said.

Mages. Mages and knights. Mahariel’s eyes dropped to the symbol on the guard’s chestplate, looked him in the eye, nodded once, then turned her feet away from the Circle camp. Raised sword surrounded by flames; another thing Mahariel should never forget, the symbol of the Templars. That was an order to be avoided, whether or not she was a mage. In Mahariel’s mind, she could still read the handful of names etched into the back panel of Keeper Marethari's aravel. Fendir, Fenarel's father, included; and those were the missing Dalish from Sabrae clan alone.

Mahariel's flight took her to the only space wide enough for the breeze to blow through unobstructed. Unfortunately, the cleared area was dominated by a platform where a shemlen priest led a prayer with a few gathered soldiers and camp workers. Trying not to grimace, Mahariel hurried to the shade of a tree—where she heard the prayers less—then took off the riding hood Duncan had given her and began undoing the laces at the back of her shirt. Her fingers were loosening the ties of her leather bodice when someone cleared their throat. Mahariel met the eyes of an elderly woman who was standing on the opposite side of the tree. With white hair pulled into a bun that made Mahariel’s head hurt, a straight posture that mirrored Mahariel’s own, and clear sharp eyes that warned Mahariel to watch what she said, Mahariel couldn't help but see Keeper Marethari in her mind. The Keeper was not that tall, though. 

"Too hot," Mahariel explained without being prompted, then snapped her mouth shut. There was no Keeper here to scold her.

The woman raised her eyebrows, more in amusement than in disapproval. "I cannot say the same, but I will not presume to say what you feel." 

Mahariel nodded once. What else was she to do? She was not about to retie her shirt nor put on her cloak again; the sweat on her back was rather cooling when her skin was open to the air. She compromised in tightening the laces at the side of her bodice. 

The woman's eyes seemed to scan her; Mahariel would have bristled if it weren't for the polite smile on the elderly's face. "Are you perhaps the new Grey Warden recruit?" 

The priest on the platform raised her voice, preaching about how the light of the Maker will protect the devout during the battle to come. It occurred to Mahariel that the sun symbol on the priest's chest was like the one embroidered on the skirts of the woman in front of her. Mahariel crossed her arms, leaned against the tree trunk. "What makes you _ presume _ that?" 

The woman laughed. "My apologies, I unwittingly did what I said I would not do. Shall we start again? My name is Wynne, I am one of the Circle Mages here to help in the fight against the darkspawn."

Mahariel glanced back over her shoulder at the secluded Circle camp then back at Wynne. At least one of them seemed to be allowed to roam. "I didn't think mages are allowed to go to battle."

Wynne laughed again, though it was now crisp as the air. "Normally, that would be the case. King Cailan, however, called on to the Circle and Chantry, and neither could refuse the summons when darkspawn march on Ferelden's border even as we speak. This is a fight that affects all. Your presence suggests that the Dalish agree."

Keeper Marethari agreed, but Mahariel didn't yet feel the urgency. The hubbub of camp, the keening chants of the priest, the echoing clangs of a blacksmith’s hammer somewhere deeper in camp, and the hint of pained groans carried by the fluctuating wind were all evidence that the darkspawn threat was real. Mahariel knew that the Blight sent armies anxious for war, that it fouled Duncan’s humor whenever darkspawn slipped into conversation. She simply didn't feel that she was an indispensable piece in that battle. What was one Dalish to do amid an army of humans? 

A clay cup was pushed into Mahariel's hand.

"You have gone quiet, and quite pale. Have you had food?" 

Mahariel took Wynne's cup and drank the water in two gulps. “Duncan and I arrived only this morning.” And the taint still raged in her blood. The fever broke, but Duncan had taught her better than to hope that she was cured. At the thought, Mahariel frowned at the cup Wynne had shared with her. “I don’t think you should use this cup anymore.”

Wynne opened her mouth, then closed it with a clack when Mahariel slipped the cup into her pack. 

With a sigh, Mahariel said, “I’m sick with the Blight; I don’t know if I’m...” She gestured to herself then at Wynne.

“You do not know if you are contagious?” Wynne suggested. “You worry that perhaps I might get the taint as well.”

_ Contagious. _ Mahariel tucked the Common term into the back of her mind and nodded. The first thing that Duncan taught her was that the darkspawn taint spread through contact with a tainted object, and since it was Mahariel’s blood that carried the sickness and not her skin, Duncan had given her permission to roam the camp. But the Warden had said nothing about other bodily fluids. “It is safer this way.”

Wynne smiled, back to being polite. “I see. From what I’ve learned from the Wardens during these past few skirmishes with the darkspawn, I should think there is not much of a risk from mingling with Wardens, but I will be cautious, and thank you for the concern. In any case, you are indeed the Wardens’ new recruit?”

“As opposed to an old recruit?” Mahariel cast her eyes out at the people around her, most of whom were occupied with their own errands: Armoured soldiers with their reports and missions; hulking warriors with their armful of materials—iron, leather, fabric; harried healers with their baskets of clean linen and gauze; two men with white paint on their faces dressed in fur and leather, marched south along with their hounds whose snouts reached their hips . 

“There were others several days ago, the most recent being a knight from Redcliffe and a rather...friendly young man from Denerim,” Wynne said, lips pursed. Either ‘friendly’ had another meaning for humans, or Wynne was trying her best to be civil.

Mahariel eased back against the tree with a low hum. First, King Cailan had personally delivered a warm and joyful welcome on Duncan’s return, and went so far as to call Mahariel a friend and an ally; now, Wynne seemed to make note of every Warden recruit that passed through. It seemed the humans thought quite highly of the Wardens. Mahariel thought back on the one-inch-thick book Sabrae Clan had traded from the humans years before she was born; filled with magic, heroes, griffons, blood, and most of all, death. Magic, heroes, griffons, blood, death; the Grey Wardens seemed to be intimately associated with all those words. And Mahariel was hours away to becoming one of them. The stories of the Third and Fourth Blight pushed against her mind, insistent and unwavering like a blade on her throat. Mahariel pressed her fingertips on the leather that protected her neck and collarbone; it felt thinner than she had originally thought.

“These are interesting times, tumultuous and uncertain, yet filled with unexpected opportunities,” Wynne said, voice soft and eyes on the crowd praying for things they don’t have control over. Then those grey eyes turned to Mahariel, and the latter almost heard words of sympathy. 

But what would this shemlen stranger sympathize with her? That they were both forced into a war? That they were unfortunate enough to witness a Blight? “Opportunities?”

“I would have never thought I would have the pleasure to meet one of the Dalish, and I certainly didn’t think that a Blight would come during my lifetime.”

So it _ was _ about the Blight. “I think I’d rather have bland times,” Mahariel mumbled. 

Wynne chuckled at that, her eyes scanning Mahariel again. “It can be overwhelming, I agree. Therefore I shall not take up more of your time. Duncan’s camp is just across, next to the royal tents—” Wynne pointed past the platform at a ring of broken columns adjacent to large red and yellow tents “—while the cooks are stationed farther south.”

Mahariel followed Wynne’s finger to where the paved road began again, sloping up to an entire area with scattered crumbled structures. Like the Circle camp, walls enclosed the cooking area, though these were higher—around chest height. Human-chest height, anyway. With a thankful nod at Wynne, Mahariel shouldered her pack and headed toward Duncan’s tent. Perhaps Duncan had returned from whatever it was he needed to do—report to the Grey Wardens, meet with the king, prepare for the Joining, whichever—and Mahariel can ask for more information about the Wardens, about Ferelden, about humans. Or perhaps he hasn’t returned and Mahariel could simply take back the sleep that she lost to her fever. Alas, she had her own duties: eat, then find the Grey Warden Alistair. Mahariel stopped at the thought and barrelled into someone. Her hands flew up to catch narrow shoulders even as a sheathed sword fell on the soil with a muffled thud.

“Oh dear. Forgive me, I—” a young man looked up at Mahariel, and the words seemed stuck in his throat. His eyes jumped across her face, down at her leathers, along the length of her twin blades. If it weren’t for the rise and fall of his shoulders, Mahariel thought he’d stopped breathing.

Mahariel studied the man’s face too, though not so jittery or as obvious. He was not as young as his narrow shoulders suggested, but now that Mahariel saw the slant of his eyes, the straightness of his nose, and the sharpness of his ears, the fine bones which her hands steadied made sense. Mahariel squeezed the elf’s shoulders once before releasing him with a smile.

The man blinked, cleared his throat, snapped down to pick up the sword. He used the sleeves of his thin shirt to wipe the dirt that stuck to its crossguard, mumbling about displeasing someone. Only when the sword was shiny as new did he turn back up to look Mahariel in the eye. “You are...I mean, how may I help you? Have you got a message to deliver?”

For the first time, Mahariel noticed a small pouch at the man’s hip, the string looped around a bone-button stretched by folded papers, the weight of which dragged the waistline of his trousers down an inch or so. That inch was enough to reveal blue and purple marks over his pelvis. Before the smile could slip off her face, Mahariel shook her head, about to excuse herself. Then she remembered the question she forgot to ask Wynne. “I’m looking for a Grey Warden named Alistair. Do you—”

“Oh, him?” The man nodded and smiled, apparently eager for the familiar topic. “He is delivering a message of his own, searching for the Senior mage. The last I saw him, he was headed to the east ruins.” The man pointed back the way Mahariel came, east of the clearing, at a set of stairs just past where she and Wynne had talked.

“This place is growing larger the longer I’m here,” Mahariel said with a frown directed at the path she didn’t see before, hidden as it were by pine trees.

The camp messenger cleared his throat, hands choking the hilt of the sword he carried—a package to be delivered, Mahariel guessed. It was too long for him.

“Forgive me if this is too forward,” the messenger said, “but those markings on your face...are they...” He waved a hand in front of his own face. “We hear stories about the, uh, about the Dalish.”

His voice faltered at the last word, and Mahariel felt a pang of guilt and pity. The guilt was neither specific nor clear, but it was there. And the pity was for both the City elf and for herself. Elder Cygan was right; the City Elves were isolated from their roots as much as the Dalish isolated themselves from everyone except the clans.

“It is called a _ vallaslin, _” Mahariel said carefully. “To honor the Creator’s teachings, to remind us of our oath, and to mark us as Dalish.” 

The other elf mouthed the elvhen word under his breath, which brought a smile to Mahariel’s face. 

“It means ‘blood-writing’,” Mahariel added.

The elf’s eyes popped at that. “Blood—do you mean, that is, it is not ink?”

Mahariel's smile shank. “It is both. My blood, and sacred ink.”

“Oh, I see,” the city elf said, eyes squinting. Mahariel doubted it was an attempt to better see the pattern on her face. “Just _ your _blood, then?”

“Yes. _ My _ blood, mixed with _ sacred _ ink.”

The elf nodded once, twice. Then he angled his body away. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to be on my way.”

Of course he did. “_Dareth shiral, lethallin. _” Mahariel crossed her forearms over her chest. “Safe journey, brother.”

The elf stood there for a breath, then propped the sword between his thighs as he repeated the gesture. “Likewise.”

Mahariel watched as he hurried off to deliver more messages, not once looking back. With a sigh, Mahariel ran the tip of her pinky along the fanned lines on her chin. There were only a few patches of flaking skin left—the remaining tactile reminders that she now wore the combined marks of Mythal, Andruil, and Dirthamen on her face. Mahariel’s lips curled. Was it irony, that her bare face made her notable among her peers within the clan, and that it was her marked face that made her conspicuous among humans and city elves? Or was it a metaphor of her place in the world? 

And just like that, her appetite vanished. 

With a grunt, Mahariel turned on her heel and trudged back toward the stone steps that would hopefully lead her to the Warden Alistair, who was most likely another shemlen. But perhaps a human was better company than a city elf who feared her. Creators, what has become of her life?

“Hey you!”

Mahariel paused at the base of the stairs, eyes landing on a beefy hairy man behind a high table that displayed greaves, armbraces, daggers, three smooth breastplates, a few quivers, and other assortments of armor and weapon kit. “What?” Mahariel said, because the man was definitely looking at her.

“What’re you doin’ fooling around? And in clothes like that?” The man flailed a dirty rag up and down, as if to wipe down Mahariel’s body.

Mahariel glanced at her white shirt and leather corset. Granted, her sleeves were slipping further down her shoulders, but her neck and collarbone were well covered and surely decent. Was it her leggings? “What of it?”

The man spluttered, threw the rug at the table then planted a thick fist on his hip. “What of it? The mouth on you. Damn it, girl. Where’s the materials I asked for?”

The elvhen messenger’s anxious face flashed in Mahariel’s mind and everything made sense. This was not about the bare skin of her shoulders and back, or about her not wearing a skirt. As Mahariel approached the man, she rested a hand on the hilt of one of her swords. The closer she got, the harder it was to breathe in the sticky-sour smell of sweat. 

“What of my clothes?” She kept her voice as neutral as her face.

The man rolled his eyes, grunting in frustration. “It’s fancy for you, isn’t it? But forget that. Where’s my—”

“I am not a servant, _ shemlen _.”

The foreign word seemed to shock the man out of his petty anger. Mahariel saw the moment the man realized what the markings on her face might mean, for his eyes widened as they focused on her face. Just to make sure, Mahariel lifted her blade a little with a flick of her thumb; the rasp of ironbark against the hard leather of its sheath snatched the man’s attention toward her weapons. The man’s mouth opened, and before calls for help could froth from his lips, Mahariel leaned over, swept one of the smaller daggers off the table and pressed the point against the man’s diaphragm. His mouth and his chest stopped moving.

“Breathe,” Mahariel reminded the man. The dagger in her hand shifted a little as he took shallow breaths.

Mahariel leaned closer, partially to cover the fact that she had a dagger to the shemlen’s stomach but mostly to push said dagger harder into his soft-leather apron. “Listen to me, _ shemlen. _If I hear you speak to your servants the way you did to me, if you beat any of your workers, or harm them in any way again, I will gut you like the prey you are. And if you think the Wardens or the King will punish me for it, remember that I am dying and have nothing more to lose.”

Mahariel threw the dagger on the table with clang and a thud then shoved the man as hard as she could. He didn’t tumble over the stack of heavy crates behind him, but he was struck speechless and wide-eyed with confusion. Perhaps Mahariel overdid it; he didn’t want the man forgetting her words, after all.

“Remember what I said, _ shemlen _. I can track you wherever you go.” And with that, Mahariel left the man and didn’t look back. How she wished she had a way to know if the man would take her threats seriously, so she could truly track him down if he didn’t, but even Merrill didn’t know how to scry. 

Mahariel slowed her march as the stairs took her across some sort of garden; there were no colorful flowers or lush green bushes, but stone boxes filled with soil and weed lined in rows along the rectangular stone-tiled floor, a bench or two sat between each. Once long ago, perhaps garlands wrapped around the columns that guarded the perimeter. Mahariel laid on one of the cold benches, legs outstretched on the ground, sighing as the stone eased the fever on her skin. Her clan must be close to the northern border of the Brecilian Forest if they stopped only to sleep. Keeper Marethari would have kept the clan moving, considering the danger of the taint spreading on top of the darkspawn threat. And Mahariel was as far south as she had been since Namassa trained her in the Korcari. What indeed has become of her life?

With the clan, with Tamlen, her future was as clear as a tapestry—Mahariel surrounded by her clan, safe and healthy; Tamlen by her side, hand in hand, with a little boy and a little girl, both crystal-eyed and ink-haired. But with the clan and Tamlen gone, and with the Joining being her only chance to survive the sickness in her blood, it felt as though that tapestry was being unwoven on one end while a new picture was being weaved on the other. There was no guarantee of finishing that new picture, and even if it were completed, would she like it?

Voices trickled into Mahariel’s ears, low and brisk. Mahariel sat up in time to see three armored people taking the stairs on the opposite side of the garden. Two men, one woman. The two at the flanks appeared to be guards or officers to the man in the middle. That one had bulkier armor, silver and gleaming, though it sported scratches and small dents. As though he knew he was being watched, the man turned his dark head right toward Mahariel. For a second Mahariel thought he would turn away and continue on his way; instead, he slowed their pace and angled toward her. 

“You there,” said the guard on the right, the man. “Do you need a healer?”

“No,” Mahariel said, sitting straighter. “Just resting.”

As the trio stopped a few feet from her, Mahariel felt the sharp heavy gaze of the man with the silver armor. His prominent hook-like nose made the lines on his face even more severe. In his dark eyes, Mahariel could see nothing but a steady, unyielding purpose. Whatever that purpose was, this man will not allow anything to stop him from achieving it. She liked him already. 

“You are Duncan’s new Grey Warden, I assume.” The man’s voice matched his appearance: gruff, if a bit nasally, and to the point. 

Mahariel would have chuckled if the man would blink once in a while and thus release her from his gaze. “You’re not the first to assume that.”

The woman to his left huffed and gave a glare, but she said nothing as her commander hummed an agreement.

“His majesty could not contain his excitement after meeting you. How could I not hear about you?” Human or not, Mahariel knew the sarcasm in the man’s voice.

Either the gossip about the new Warden exhausted him or he didn’t agree with the king’s excitement. “Who are you?”

The male guard scoffed. “How do you not know Teyrn Loghain Mac Tir, hero of—”

The Teyrn held a hand up. “Teyrn Loghain will do.”

Loghain Mac Tir. The great strategist and Hero of River Dane. Mahariel studied the tired face of a man pivotal in dethroning and defeating Ferelden’s Orlesian invaders. The dark long hair, locked jaw, deep frown lines over intense dark eyes, yes, he indeed looked like a grim and sharp general.

Teyrn Loghain crossed his arms, eyes locked on Mahariel’s. “Cailan’s fascination with the Wardens goes beyond the ordinary. Are you aware his father brought your order back to Ferelden?”

“Duncan told me.” He told quite a story about himself and the king, though Mahariel suspected he had not said all. But more interestingly, the Teyrn addressed the king by name alone, and in a tone not quite warm. “You do not agree with the king’s fascination?”

Another twitch from the female guard, but she stayed quiet. Loghain glance at her and seemed to tell her something through one look. 

“Maric respected the Grey Wardens,” Teyrn Loghain continued. “They have an honoured place in the hearts of our people. But Maric would have understood that it takes more than legends to win a battle.” He sighed. “That’s not an argument I'll repeat here.” 

Where else had he repeated that argument? Aside from the king’s presence. True to his word, the Teyrn switched the topic rather abruptly. And to a topic that seemed to repeat in Mahariel’s own conversations. 

“I see you’re a Dalish. Maric knew a Dalish elf once; never saw an equal with the bow before or since.”

That was new. “The former king knew a Dalish?”

The Teyrn grunted in what sounded like a mix of frustration and amusement. “I suppose I see why that is surprising. But yes, Maric knew quite a few elves, both Dalish and from the city. I don’t suppose you’ll be riding into battle with the rest of your fellows, will you?”

Another change of subject. Mahariel stared at the man, since he had no qualms staring at her either. It seemed Maric, and those relating to him, were quite the sensitive topics for the Teyrn. “I hope not.”

Teyrn Loghain nodded. “You’re wiser than you look. But if Cailan has his way, you will.”

Mahariel was about to ask just how wise did she look, but the Teyrn gestured to the camp where Mahariel had come from, and said, “Now I must return to my task. Pray that our king proves amenable to wisdom, if you’re the praying sort.”

“I have no king.” Mahariel said the words before she could think them over. As Teyrn Loghain continued to look her in the eye, Mahariel felt like sewing her mouth.

“And yet the fate of the Grey Wardens lies in King Cailan’s hands. Remember that,” Teyrn Loghain said, both a reprimand and an advice. He nodded to his guards, and the three of them marched away to possibly yet another war meeting. 

Remember this, remember that. So much to learn, so much to hold onto. And Mahariel promised herself to never forget a single thing. For now she must fight the taint inside her, fight the darkspawn, fight for her life. After that she would search for Tamlen; she would not stop until she either welcomed him in her arms again, or returned his body to the clan. For she was a Dalish hunter—she did not waver, and she did not break. She was of the last Elvhen, and she will never submit. 


	2. More Than A Royal Bastard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alistair, junior member of the Grey Wardens, meets the newest Grey Warden recruit. He thought the recruit being a Dalish elf was a big enough surprise, but when he starts to really talk to her, he does something he should not be doing: he's rooting for her.

A promising recruit. That’s what Duncan had called her in the note that arrived in Ostagar a day before the Warden-Commander himself returned. He had said little else, aside from the fact that she was sick with the Blight. It would have helped Alistair immensely if his mentor had mentioned that the recruit was Dalish. Imagine his chagrin as he mouthed off at her, making bad jokes about the mix-matched army and the looming war.

To be honest, he had not noticed the recruit at first, trying as it was to convince the enchanter to talk to the revered mother. Alistair was weighing the benefits and consequences of simply walking away and letting the revered mother do her own work, when he spotted a small figure at the corner of his eye; white blouse, dark leggings. The figure leaned against a column—one of hundreds Alistair had seen in the month he’d been at Ostagar—arms crossed and head rested on the marble. The figure seemed to watch, or maybe they were asleep. Perhaps another messenger for the enchanter. Poor fellow.  
  
“What Her Reverence desires is of no concern to me,” the senior mage said, for the fourth and a half time—Alistair had cut him off the third time, and he seemed to be paying for that by way of going in circles. “I’m busy helping the Grey Wardens, by the King’s orders, might I add.”  
  
Alistair agreed with the man’s sentiment; Chantry business was not his business, and he would rather have followed Duncan to convene with the rest of the Wardens, but no. Apparently the revered mother needed a Grey Warden who also happened to be trained as a Templar, specifically, to request the mage’s presence on her behalf. “Should I have asked her to write a note?”  
  
That scrunched up the mage’s features even more. No wonder he had so many lines on his face. “Tell her I will not be harassed in this manner!”

Maker, how Alistair wished he could say that to the revered mother, for both the mage’s and his own sake. But mostly his own. This argument was not an accident, after all. “Yes, I was harassing you by delivering a message.”

“Your glibness does you no credit,” the mage said, possibly because he had no witty line to throw back at him.

A pity. It would make quite the show for their lone audience. If they were awake, that is. The figure was very still at the edge of his vision. Alistair pouted at the mage. “Here I thought we were getting along so well. I was even going to name one of my children after you; the grumpy one.”

The mage sighed and rubbed his forehead. Finally! The man’s patience had run out. “Fine—” Alistair tried not to verbally thank the Maker “—I will speak to the woman if I must. Get out of my way, fool.”

If only the man had agreed right from the start, he wouldn’t have wasted so much of his own time. Who was the fool again?

As the mage passed the mysterious figure, and the latter didn’t make a move to stop him, Alistair was almost convinced they were sleeping upright. But why go so far away from the camp only to sleep standing up? They could make use of the large space and splay on the ground at least. It was quiet at the eastern edge of the ruins though, and that had its appeal. The figure pushed away from the column and headed toward Alistair. Only then did he suspect that they were there for him. That, or they enjoyed watching a squabble. Everyone loved a good cat fight.

It was the twin blades strapped on the left side of the... woman’s hip that caught Alistair’s attention first—octagonal pommels, short hilts, wooden grips, no cross-guards, thin slightly curved blades. Elvhen made. Alistair lifted his gaze to her face just as he stopped two feet in front of her. Large eyes, long sharp ears, red markings on her face. Clearly Dalish. That was new and unusual. But the fact that one of the reclusive Dalish elves was in the middle of a human military camp was not enough for Alistair to think before opening his mouth. Maybe it was the fact that she was Dalish that he said what he said.

“You know, one good thing about the Blight is how it brings people together.”

The woman, or the girl—it was hard to tell her age—barely cleared his shoulders and had to tilt her head quite a bit to meet his eyes. Alistair was doubly glad he didn’t stand too close to her. “You are another strange human.”

Like she was one to talk. She was barefoot, after all. Her blouse was untied down her back and would have long fallen off if not for a leather gorget and bodice. Sweat plastered strands of her hair to her temples, despite the tight braid, as if she stood under a desert sun instead of southern Ferelden. Dark circles formed under her eyes, a violet darker than her irises.

Instead of pointing out all that, Alistair just said, “You’re not the first to tell me that,” which was both harmless and true enough. As he studied her features more, the suspicion grew. “Wait, we haven’t met have we? I don’t suppose you happen to be another mage.”

One of her eyebrows rose. Alistair thought the sharp arch would break itself. “I wish I were.” Those dark eyes flicked down to Alistair’s breastplate, where a griffon reared on its hind legs. “Are you Alistair?”

She knew him? Alistair looked at the elf’s face again, the dark circles, the sheen of sweat. Maker, but of course she knew of him. “You’re Duncan’s new recruit. The Dalish. Yes, of course.” Duncan really should have said something important about the recruit, like her name or being Dalish. Who would miss that little detail? To be fair, the scrap of paper he wrote on was barely longer than Alistair’s pointer finger. “I should have recognized you right away. I apologize.”

Mahariel sighed, stretching her neck, which cracked twice. “Gossip does travel fast and wide.”

“Oh no, it’s not like that,” Alistair assured her. “Duncan sent word. He spoke quite highly of you.” So high in fact, that Alistiar had lingered around the compound to get first glimpse of this promising recruit. And he would have got it too, if the revered mother hadn’t spotted him. “Allow me to formally introduce myself. I’m Alistair, the new Grey Warden—though I guess you knew that. As the junior member of the order, I’ll be accompanying you when you prepare for the Joining.”

Mahariel turned the way she came, inclining her head for Alistair to follow. “What kind of ritual is the Joining, exactly?”

Ooh, straight to the serious questions. “It’s ancient and complicated, and a secret for now.”

Mahariel’s expression didn’t change, but Alistair felt the disappointment and frustration oozing from her skin. Her very sweaty skin. Maker, has her fever not broke? He had half a mind to ask, but her steady and rather quick pace as they crossed an old garden convinced him she was not in dire need of a healer. In fact, her posture was perfect; chin level, shoulders relaxed, back straight—and beaded with sweat that trickled down between her shoulder blades, caught by the line of a hardened leather bodice.

Alistair shook his head, setting his eyes firmly forward. “You know it just occurred to me that there’d never been that many women in the Grey Wardens. I wonder why that is?”

“You’re evading,” Mahariel said. And she would be partially right. “Do _shemlen_—human women not train to fight?”

Alistair hummed. “Some do, if they want and have the means for it. But not all.”

Mahariel paused at the top of the stairs that would finally deposit them at in the central grounds of the king's camp. “There’s your answer.”

An armorer stationed at the base of the steps jerked out of his stool; Alistair would not have thought it strange if the man didn’t stare up at Mahariel. And Mahariel noticed too. As she descended the stairs, she kept her eyes on the man. Clearly something had happened between them. Hopefully something whose resolution didn’t have to involve enchanters or commanders or revered mothers.

“Hello again, Grey Warden. Er, Wardens,” the armorer said, hands inside the pockets of his apron, which had a small slash just below the rib cage.

Alistair looked at the man’s feeble smile, then at Mahariel, then at the apron. Oh Maker, the Grey Wardens indeed had a penchant for recruiting troublemakers. Himself included.

“You learn fast,” Mahariel said in a tone that could either be sarcastic or proud. It didn’t help that her face was perfectly blank.

The armorer nodded, a jerky movement that made Alistair want to jump in to end his discomfort. It was only Mahariel’s sudden cold facade that stopped him. Had he misread her character?

“It’s my hope, Warden,” the armorer said. “To start, I’d like to apologize for my words and tone. And as a token of good graces, I’d offer you a discount to my wares.” His eyes jumped between Mahariel and Alistair. “That is, in addition to the discount for your Order.”

“Treat your servants right,” Mahariel said.

Then she left Alistair and the armorer to raise eyebrows at each other.

“What have you done?” Alistair couldn’t resist to ask.

The armorer sank to his chair. “Didn’t watch my mouth, is what I didn’t do.”

Confused, impressed, and confused that he was impressed, Alistair jogged to catch up with the new recruit who apparently had an aggressive streak. Before he could talk, Mahariel rounded on him, almost making him step on her very bare toes.

“Dalish are taught to stand for themselves and the clan,” she said, chin high and eyes bright. “Each of us can and will fend for ourselves. And I handle myself better than most.”

Alistair had heard of the pride of the Dalish. He had to admit that he had turned many pages in vain search as to what they were proud of. Some books said that it was about their victory in taking their freedom back from the Tevinter Imperium, others said their pride was rooted in their heritage, their people’s long and ancient ties to Thedas itself. Most called it petty pride, a desperate means to cling to former glory. There were many others, citing magic and immortality. But as Alistair received Mahariel’s unwavering gaze, he suspected that their pride, or at least, Mahariel’s pride came from being a fighter. And why wouldn’t she be proud? Here she was, tainted with the Blight for six days, yet still able to threaten a disrespectful human into giving the respect she deserved.

“I’m getting that impression,” Alistair said. And Maker what a strong impression it was. If there were a dozen more women like her in the Wardens then maybe they could even take on the archdemon there and then.

Mahariel nodded, eyes dropped to their almost touching toes—well, toes to boots—then stepped back. “Would you first accompany me to a cook?”

Alistair laughed. That was a switch! A remark was ready at the tip of his tongue, but he saw her dry lips then the trembling in her fingers. “Oh, um, of course. Whatever you need to prepare.”

He led her to one of the cooking fires, the one _not_ near the infirmary. She was the quiet sort, Alistair decided. Not only did she not talk a lot, her feet made no sound at all, whether they stepped on soil or gravel. Perhaps it has to do with her smaller build? Or perhaps it was because she was an elf? Alistair had almost wet his pants enough times whenever one of the elvhen servants came up behind him. Very light on their feet, elves.

The cook offered Alistair a bowl as they sat on low rickety benches, and, more for want of something to do than actually being hungry, he took it with a soft thank you. Alistair sipped on his potato soup as Mahariel dunked bread into her own, keeping his silence and recalling his knowledge on the Dalish. When he threw out rumors about newborn stealing or blood magic or naked dancing in the moonlight, there was little left that he could safely talk to her about. Perhaps he could ask about the markings on her face; he knew the Dalish wore them to mark themselves apart from the city elves, but despite at least ten drawing of distinct patterns on at least three different books, none of them talked about their meaning or if they were some kind of magic. They had to have meaning, right? Otherwise the Dalish would not wear it so visibly. Handing his empty bowl back to the cook, Alistair was about to ask his questions when Mahariel gingerly wiped stray crumbs from her marked chin. He could have imagined it, but he thought the touch made her wince. And so he let her eat in peace, trading stories with the other soldiers instead.

Eventually, Mahariel mopped the last of the soup with her bread and popped the soggy piece into her mouth. “Where do the darkspawn come from?” she asked after a huge swallow of water.

She already had the appetite of a Grey Warden and she hasn’t even Joined yet. Standing up, Alistair invited her to follow him. He turned them toward Duncan’s camp, where a tent waited for its new occupant. “Do you want the Chantry version or the truth?”

A sharp intake of breath made him glance down at her, dreading that he had offended another person in one day. He blinked as he found a closed-lipped smile on Mahariel’s face, mirth brightening her eyes. But of course the remark would tickle her. After all the bloody history with her people, she’d shed no tears for the Chantry. But then how would she react if she knew he trained as a Templar? Hopefully not like enchanter Grumpy.

For the most part, Mahariel’s barrage of questions was mostly about the darkspawn, the blight, the wardens, and humans. She wanted all the versions that Alistair offered, which ranged from picture books, stories from the sisters in Redcliffe’s Chantry, leather-bound tomes from the Circle, and Chantry records stamped with the sunburst seal. Mahariel asked about those too, and listened with a blank face. Though Alistair suspected she held doubts about their credibility. Who wouldn’t? History was written by the victors. He read that in a book once.

As they neared the podium where one of the sisters prayed the Chant of Light over more than a dozen bowed heads, Mahariel angled toward the ramp that led to the open-air infirmary—very charming, the sounds they made up there. Alistair noticed that the detour put quite the distance between them and the platform.

“Do they do that all day?” she asked, squinting at the priest who had her hand raised to bless the people.

The woman really did not like the Chantry. That could either be good or bad for Alistair depending on which parts of the Chantry she hated and how intense that hatred was. “Well, they don’t have to. But considering we’re facing a Blight, they might as well ask for all the help we can get, right? Maybe all those voices will annoy the Maker just enough for him to come investigate the fuss.”

Mahariel chuckled, so dry and short that Alistair wasn’t sure it was really a chuckle. “I doubt he will. I don’t believe gods trouble themselves with mortals.”

A frown crept to Alistair’s brow as he mulled over the way Mahariel said that last word. Mortals. Moooortals. The word sounded casual in his own head, but from Mahariel’s lips, it seemed weighted; nostalgic yet detached. Elves were said to be immortal once, weren’t they?

“Don’t let the revered mother hear you say that,” Alistair teased, “she’ll call blasphemy and blame you for turning the Maker’s eye. She’ll have a huge fit until her poor heart gave out.”

Another close-lipped smile graced Mahariel’s face. “That would be a sight.”

Alistair laughed. He didn’t necessarily want the old woman’s heart to explode, but he could appreciate Mahariel’s lack of compulsion to tiptoe around all these important people, can’t he?

As they passed Teyrn Loghain’s green and orange tent which bordered the west wing of the ruins, a sharp crack burst from inside, startling the lone guard into attention. Mahariel veered right to investigate, but Alistair put a hand on her shoulder.

“Better we left it alone,” Alistair whispered even as two distinct voices shouted over one another from inside the closed tent.

“That’s the Teyrn and the King,” Mahariel said. She allowed to be led away, but her eyes remained on the guard who did his best to stare at nothing so he could pretend that nothing was happening.

“You met the Teyrn and the King?”

“Only briefly. The King is strange like you. And the Teyrn is rather brusque for a general and a noble.”

Alistair raised an eyebrow. There was a lot in that sentence. “Teyrn Loghain wasn’t born a noble. King Maric honored him with a title. And how would a general who was also a noble behave anyway?”

Mahariel shrugged. “Like Duncan.”

Ooh. Alistair liked that answer. As they reached the small red tent facing a banked fire, Alistair turned to Mahariel and gestured for her to settle in.

Mahariel paused midway of opening the tent, eyes on the noon sun. “Duncan said the ritual isn’t until this evening.”

Really? And here he thought the preparations were already made, considering three had already taken the Joining yesterday. From what he heard, the Lady Cousland had joined her brother’s army this morning. “I suppose they need more—anyway, that means you have time to rest.”

Those dark eyes stared up at him, sunlight picking the violet in them. “I have more questions, if you don’t mind.” She inclined her head toward her tent.

For a Dalish she really was rather friendly with a human. Or with a respectful-enough human, anyway. Not that Alistair minded. She was better company than the mothers and the mages who played their games of power. As Alistair ducked into the too small tent, he gave a smile to Mahariel. She didn’t smile back, but she didn’t spit at him either, so he figured he was doing okay.

A bedroll laid against the far corner of the low tent. A chair sat by the opening, and next to it a small table with a washbasin waited to be used. Alistair sank onto the chair while Mahariel sat crossed-legged on the bed roll and pulled her pack over her lap.

“Duncan mentioned other recruits?” she asked, rolling her shoulders.

“Yes, Daveth and Ser Jory.” Alistair frowned. Ser Jory would be fine own his own for a few more hours, but who knew what Daveth might be up to. “We’ll have to find them before evening comes.”

Mahariel sighed, then pulled her tight sleeves to her elbows. “I’d rather do the ritual sooner.”

Blue-green veins ran down both forearms, some tendrils darker than the others. The veins on her right wrist in particular was almost black. Before Alistair could restrain himself, he was already kneeling next to Mahariel, a hand ready to trace the flow of blood that ran just beneath the seemingly thin skin. He managed not to cross that boundary, at least.

“I haven’t seen the taint in someone,” he explained. Weak, but true. “The sickness is said to make ghouls of those infected. A slow inevitable change that even the Joining can’t—you probably don’t want to hear this.”

Mahariel shook her head, not pulling away. “I need to know.”

Brave, that one. Alistair still had nightmares. “Well, the veins slowly turn black; that is the first sign. Then, pustules and wounds form on the skin, until it hardens into something like scabs. The whole skin turns into—you know, you really should stop me; this is a little...I feel my food coming back up.”

Mahariel sighed, but her lips were turned upward. “Alright. Skip to your point.”

“Thank you. How long have you had the taint?”

Her eyes dropped to her arm. She murmured, “Six days.”

“Maker’s breath, you really are resilient.”

Her eyes snapped back to his.

“Oh, I meant,” Alistair flailed a hand, “Duncan mentioned that you were able to recover. And from the look of your veins, and the fact that you’re able to walk around, you’re doing well. I’m sure he told you how rare that is.”

Mahariel smoothed down her sleeves. “I’ve been told.”

Was there something she wasn’t saying? Most likely.

As Alistair returned to his seat, he noticed two glints on Mahariel’s fingers. A ring on her left hand, around her ring finger; and a silver marking on the right, swirling around her middle finger. He averted his gaze before she could notice. “So I’m curious. Have you ever actually encountered darkspawn? Or was it just remnants of their passing?”

Mahariel scrunched her nose. “I’ve fought a few, yes. Like rotting things come to life. With such persistence! That makes them even more horrible. But at least they stay down when struck.”

Somehow the foul words made Alistair feel better. “I’ve only fought them once up close. And that was before the battles here started, which Duncan has kept me out of so far.”

“I see,” Mahariel gave him a side-eye, her tone knowing. “You’re the young Warden he dotes on.”

Heat rushed to Alistair’s face, hands waving in denial in time with the shaking of his head. “What? No, no. You misunderstand. Duncan is just…he cares for those he leads. For everyone he leads. He is a good leader like that.”

The tip of Mahariel’s lips curled in a smile, but she dropped the subject. A part of Alistair wished that she didn’t. Did Duncan talk about him? What had he said? Despite wanting to know, the Maker would return first before Alistair would ask his questions.

He cleared his throat. “What do you think of Duncan?”

A pause. Mahariel cocked her head, eyes locking with his own. “He seems honorable. Sympathetic, but firm. I’d be dead if he hadn’t found me.”

How familiar. Alistair decided then: Mahariel was okay. He wasn’t about to tell her all his secrets, but he did settle more comfortably in his chair. “So how exactly did you meet Duncan?”

Mahariel hugged her pack to her chest. “He found me after I’ve been tainted, outside a cave. And he took me back to camp.” She frowned. “I suppose I’m lucky he was a good enough tracker to even find the clan.”

“Why? Are the Dalish hidden by magic?”

“We could be.” A coy smile. “But my clan is not.”

“So tell me, how do you move your wagons? Do the trees just make way for you?”

Mahariel laughed. An honest, teeth-showing, bouncy laugh. That was something. “They’re called _aravel_.”

“And?” Alistair urged.

“And?”

“Do you make the trees move out of your way?”

Mahariel shrugged and just smiled. Oh, it was like that then. Alistair crossed his arms and leaned back. When had he even leaned forward? Anyway, he leaned back in his chair, and put on his best pout.

“Now you tell me," Mahariel said, "how long have you been a Warden?”

Alistair lifted a shoulder. “Not too long.”

Chuckling, Mahariel pushed her pack to a corner and settled deeper into the bedroll. “If it’s not too long—" she pulled her hands eight inches away from each other— "then just how short?" She pushed them closer until only an inch was left between her palms. 

Alistair spluttered. If he had been drinking, he’d have sprayed water all over Mahariel. “Six months,” he said. He knew when he lost. “I’ve been a Warden for six months.”

Mahariel hummed, obviously satisfied. “And what was that fight about?”

“With the mage?” Alistair stretched his legs in front of him, sliding lower into the chair as he did so. "The Circle is here at the King’s request, and the Chantry doesn’t like that one bit. They just love letting mages know how unwelcome they are. Which puts me in a bit of an awkward position.” Should he tell her? Perhaps it was better to get it over as soon as possible. Staring at the tip of his boots, Alistair continued in a quieter voice, “I was once a Templar.”

Alistair’s muscles braced for the anger, for Mahariel to shoot to her feet and call him a mage hunter or a Chantry soldier or anything like that; none came, and his entire body unclenched so suddenly that he sagged on the chair. Mahariel simply listened with her arms around her legs, chin rested on her knees. Perhaps she didn’t think Templars were that bad? Or maybe she didn’t care. Was the latter worse? It felt like it.

Since she didn’t seem to have opinions on the matter, Alistair continued. “I’m sure the Revered Mother meant it as an insult, sending me as her messenger, and the mage picked right up on that.”

“Then why do what the woman wanted?”

With a sigh, Alistair pushed himself straighter on his seat. “I never would have agreed to it. But Duncan says we’re all to cooperate and get along. Apparently they didn’t get the same speech.”  
That got a chuckle from Mahariel. Maybe she did actually enjoy watching arguments.

“You don’t seem fond of the Chantry,” Mahariel said, to which Alistair rolled his eyes in answer. “Why were you a Templar then?”

Ah, there it was. So she did have a little problem with him being a former Templar trainee. She asked the question nicely enough, but Alistair stuttered at that one. How does one go about explaining that he was a bastard son of the previous king, raised in said king’s brother-in-law’s palace, sent away by said brother-in-law’s wife to the chantry, where he was forced to study and train as a templar, until a Grey Warden thought him worthy enough a warrior to join his ancient noble order? He doesn’t. Especially not when he only just met the person he was talking to.

“The Chantry raised me and becoming a templar was a decision made for me a long time ago,” he simplified.

Again, he waited for the narrowed eyes, for the accusations. Still nothing. Instead, Mahariel simply said, “I’m sorry they didn’t give you a choice.”

Alistair blinked at her. Well that was a switch. Tentatively, he gave her a smile. “In any case, that’s in the past. Now, here I stand a proud Grey Warden. And you’ll soon be one too if—well, you’ll understand.”

Mahariel was silent, eyes staring at his face—well, they were directed at Alistair’s face, but she was seeing something only she could see; Alistair had a feeling her mind had already solved a piece of the puzzle.

A promising recruit indeed. As the hours went on, spent through volleying questions that ranged from trivial to professional to personal, Alistair found himself doing what he had said he wouldn’t do when he read Duncan’s note: he was hoping for this recruit, for Mahariel, to survive. Surely if Alistair could survive drinking darkspawn blood, then Mahariel could too. She had to survive, because despite his better judgement—which was already questionable in the first place—he had gone and thought of Mahariel as a friend of sorts. She felt like a friend, just as the Grey Wardens felt like family. But with a Blight looming over Thedas and the war at Ferelden’s backdoor, even that was a dangerous thought. Perhaps Alistair really was a fool.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, this chapter is based on "A Promising Recruit" with additional details and some changes.


	3. The Joining

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mahariel, Alistair, and her fellow recruits are sent to the Korcari Wilds to search for darkspawn blood. There ,she finds things that are familiar, and creatures who she had no intention of ever meeting. More disturbingly, the Asha'bellanar seemed to be waiting for her.
> 
> Alistair still had nightmares from his Joining, spurred by the waking of the archdemon. Yet he was to witness another Joining, and he had foolishly befriended one of the participants of this fatal ritual.

Find three vials of darkspawn blood, that’s what Duncan had said. Three vials, three recruits. Mahariel held her long thin vial against the setting sun, its contents so thick that the blaze of orange light failed to even reflect on the smooth glass, as if the black blood swallowed light itself. When Duncan had told them of their quest in the Korcari Wilds, all the little bits of information Mahariel had tucked into her mind about the Joining sewed themselves into one nasty quilt. Mahariel hadn’t asked Alistair or Duncan to confirm it, they would only give the same answer as the last three times she tired—she’ll know soon enough. And she did know. As Mahariel flipped the vial upside down and watched the gooey blood ooze down the glass, her stomach roiled. The sour rotting stench of the genlock at her feet only churned her stomach faster; its bruise-colored flesh peeled open at the throat, swollen and calling flies to it with its exposed arteries, which Mahariel had drained into the vial between her thumb and forefinger. And she was supposed to drink the creature’s blood to cure herself of its taint.

Fenedhis.

“What?”

Mahariel turned to Alistair, whose sword dripped with sticky darkspawn blood. She could almost taste the iron in her mouth. Several paces behind Alistair, the two other recruits filled their vials with a hurlock’s blood; Ser Jory held the creature’s head back, while Daveth crouched and pressed the vials one at a time against the gushing cut they had made. 

“Nothing,” Mahariel said, handing her sealed vial to Alistair. 

Alistair carefully tucked the glass into the pack he carried, and just as carefully said, “Are you sure it’s nothing? It sounded like you were cursing.”

Mahariel cocked her head at the man. Either he studied elvish or she was being obvious. Mahariel glanced at the other two recruits and, satisfied that they were busy, leaned closer to Alistair.

“Tell me we’re not drinking this.”

Alistair stiffened, lips pressed into a line. The frown he wore looked like it would break his face, but he didn’t look away or deny what she said.

The Grey Wardens had better make their Joining potion taste good at the very least.

When Mahariel and Alistair rejoined Daveth and Ser Jory, the two recruits were in the middle of another argument about why they had to look for darkspawn blood in the evening when they did nothing but wait when the sun was high. 

Mahariel left the three men to it, preferring to keep an eye for mossy logs as she followed the group deeper into the forest. Rather, she looked for more of the white flowers with red cores. She had already asked the wounded soldier they encountered just beyond the Ostagar gate to deliver a dozen of the flowers to the kennel master, but she wasn’t sure if that would be enough for the mabari. Four blossoms and her people's magic had been enough to fend her sickness, but would it work for a hound? 

Spotting a cluster of flowers on a half rotten log, Mahariel broke away to pluck all four, pressed them between blank pages of her journal, then jogged to catch up with the humans, none of whom noticed she even left. To think that the flower the Chasind witch-child had given her years ago were this common. How Mahariel had glared at her potted plant, blaming it for nightmares she and Tamlen had, how she thought it was some magical talisman. Now she had plucked sixteen of the same flower and they were not even that deep into the Wilds. Were they merely normal herbs that happened to alleviate the symptoms of blight? Mahariel brought it up to Alistair, interrupting Ser Jory’s question on why they should be tested more _ after _ being recruited.

“As far as the Wardens know, there is no permanent cure for the taint. Not one that can be replicated, anyway,” Alistair said.

“The implication there is that it had been done once before,” Ser Jory noted, eyes earnest and serious.

Alistair grimaced. “There are rumours and even more versions for each story. Many of them contradict each other or simply don’t make sense. But only the higher ranking officers know for sure, and they are more secretive than the rest of us, which says a lot. We’re a secretive bunch, us Grey Wardens.”

“And my nose keeps twitching,” Daveth sighed. “Will they tell us any of these things after we’ve officially joined? Or will there be more secrets.”

“More secrets,” Mahariel said at the same time Alistair said, “We never run out of secrets.”

The human recruits groaned, increasingly bold in voicing their frustration about the unknown Joining ritual and the secretive order that made it. Perhaps Mahariel should share what she learned with them? She glanced at Alistair, hoping to pull him aside quietly. But the man was already squinting at her. He shook his head once, then marched onward.

That didn’t settle in Mahariel’s gut, but she kept to her own thoughts. 

“Is this the old fort?” Ser Jory suddenly said after almost half an hour of silently trudging mud and grass, then mud again. Mahariel should have worn boots.

Alistair and Daveth jogged up the soft soil incline that gradually turned into stone paving as the ancient ramp rose to meet a long wide antechamber. Mahariel doused the last of the wolfsbane incense she had packed and followed at a more leisurely pace. After six bloody encounters with darkspawn scouting parties, and skirting three different packs of wolves, Mahariel didn’t want to waste her remaining energy in case more of the creatures showed up. And she had a feeling that they will.

Alistair tucked the map into his pack and nodded, though he wore a frown as his eyes landed on the moss-covered marble roof of the entryway. Vines crept their way around thick columns, their fine curling leaves twitching in the whispering wind. 

“Darkspawn?” Mahariel asked, drawing a blade. From the corner of her eye, she caught Daveth peering into a triangular hole punched into the ground by a fallen spire. 

“Thank the Maker, no.” Alistair turned around, scanning the crumbling fort. “Most of the place is still standing, and the magic seals should have held and protected the documents. I guess we have to look for important looking things.”

“Like this fancy empty box right here?”

Three pairs of eyes landed on Daveth, waist deep into the hole he had found, arms held over his head as his hands overturned an unlocked filigreed wooden box.

Alistair cursed under his breath as he ran to Daveth. Mahariel was about to follow when the hair on her nape prickled. Resisting to draw her other blade, Mahariel joined her group huddled around a definitely empty box.

“What do you mean stolen?” Ser Perth rumbled.

Alistair flipped the box closed. “As in someone who isn’t a Warden took it without asking first.”

Mahariel placed a hand on his shoulder before he could say more. “Someone is watching.”

Silence fell among them. Alistair closed his eyes a moment, then shook his head as he opened them. “It’s not darkspawn, I’m sure.”

Daveth’s eyes blew wide. “You don’t think—”

“Well, well.”

Ser Jory and Alistair sprang to their feet, shields snapping up as they stepped in front of Mahariel and Daveth, and faced the newcomer.

With Alistair’s shoulder blocking the way, Mahariel only glimpsed the branching tip of a wooden staff before the newcomer disappeared behind one of the twin pillars that held up the entryway.

“What have we here?” the woman said, voice echoing in the empty hall. “Are you a vulture, I wonder. A scavenger poking amidst a corpse whose bones were long since picked clean?” 

Mahariel stepped away from the group, which earned her a sharp “hey!” from Alistair. She raised a calming hand to him as she approached the ramp that led inside the old fort. There, descending with the languidness of a hostess, was a woman draped in a thick maroon shawl with glossy black feathers dangling from its hem. The deep and loose collar displayed a golden necklace that covered most of the woman’s collarbone and whose beads splayed across her chest. 

Yellow glowing eyes locked on Mahariel, and the elvhen greeting teetered at the tip of her tongue. But then the woman stepped away from the shadow of the pillar and the light shone on black hair, which was pulled high and back, revealing rounded ears. Chasind. Mahariel sealed her lips, set her feet shoulder-width apart. 

The woman raised lacquered hands, gesturing at the ruins behind her. “Are you merely an intruder, come into these darkspawn-filled wilds of mine, in search of easy prey?”

She was rather beautiful, with sharp eyes and plush lips.

“What say you, hm?” she asked again, more sharply. “Scavenger or intruder?”

Mahariel leveled her gaze, offering neither challenge nor deferrence. “We are Grey Wardens, here on Warden business.”

Daveth groaned somewhere behind and to the right of Mahariel. “Are you sure you should be telling her that?”

The woman crossed her arms as she raised an eyebrow at Daveth. “Do I appear a stalking predator ready to leap upon her find? There is no need to fear me.”

That was a lie. The woman, whatever her intention, had been watching them for who knew how long, and Mahariel only noticed until it was too late. This woman can be dangerous if she wanted to be. From the soft scoff Alistair made behind Mahariel, he seemed to agree. 

“I watched your progress for some time,” the woman admitted, slowly circling them. “Where do they go, I wondered. Why are they here?”

Mahariel’s group turned with her, never showing their backs to the woman. Alistair stepped closer to her right and whispered, “she looks Chasind.”

“Damned right she does,” Daveth added next to Alistair. 

The woman’s yellow eyes jumped from one face to another, landing last on Mahariel’s. “And now you disturb ashes none have touched for so long. Why is that?”

“Don’t answer her,” Alistair murmured. “Others may be nearby.”

The woman stopped at a fallen corner of the roof and leaned her hip against the carved figures of flying beasts. She hugged herself around the middle, pretending to shiver. “Oooh, you fear barbarians will swoop down upon you.”

“Yes,” Alistair drawled. “Swooping is bad.”

Mahariel noted the white-knuckle grip he had on his sword. “What is it?” she whispered to Alistair just as Daveth raised his voice.

“She’s a Witch of the Wilds, she is. She’ll turn us into toads.”

One would think that if they suspect someone of being a witch, one would not admit it in front of said witch.

“Witch of the Wilds,” the woman repeated, resting her chin on her palm. “Such idle fancies those legends. Have you no minds of your own? You there—” she pointed a long finger at Mahariel “—women do not frighten like little boys; tell me your name and I shall tell you mine.”

There were many reasons for Mahariel not to give her name, but there were also reasons why she should. One, the woman claimed familiarity with the forest and might know something about the missing documents, and cooperation always did a faster job. Two, Mahariel liked the confidence the woman carried with her. “I go by Mahariel. A pleasure to meet you.” She felt Alistair stiffen even more next to her.

The woman’s lips curled into a smile. “Now that is a proper civil greeting, even here in the Wilds. You may call me Morrigan.”

Mahariel inclined her head. She rather liked the way Morrigan emphasized ‘you’, as though the others were not allowed to call her by name.

Morrigan pushed off from the roof piece and paced closer. “So, you seek something in that chest? Something that is here no longer?”

Alistair groaned. “Something here no longer? You stole them didn’t you. You’re some kind of...sneaky witch thief.”

“How very eloquent. How does one steal from dead men?”

“Quite easily it seems.”

Oh, Creators. Were they all talking in another place, during a less urgent moment, Mahariel would have sat back and watched as the two hurled remarks at each. Alas, there were treaties to recover. Sighing, Mahariel placed a hand on Alistair’s arm.

“Morrigan, would you happen to know what happened to those documents? The Wardens need them.”

“I do. ‘Twas my mother who took them, in fact.”

Mahariel heard Alistair take a breath, so she gave his arm a squeeze. “May we talk to her?”

Morrigan shrugged. “I could take you to her, ‘tis not far from here. And you can ask her for you papers, if you wish.”

Alistair turned on his heel so his back was to Morrigan then bent low to whisper. Ser Jory and Daveth leaned closer. 

“Excuse us for a moment, Morrigan,” Mahariel shouted over Alistair’s shoulder, lest the woman took offense on the men’s lack of manners and revoke her offer.

“We should get those treaties,” Alistair said. “But I dislike this Morrigan’s sudden appearance. It’s too convenient.”

Ser Jory grunted. “And she just happens to know where to find what we need.”

Alistair frowned, then snapped back to Morrigan. “Here’s a thought: Why don’t we wait here and you go fetch them.”

The supposed Witch of the Wilds frowned, arms crossed over her chest. “I do not ‘fetch’. If you want your precious treaties, then come. Otherwise, stay.”

Alistair and the others were right, Morrigan’s appearance was too accurate for their needs to be simple coincidence. And if she truly was a Witch of the Wilds, that could mean she had ties to Asha’bellanar. Fenedhis. Sabrae clan still owed one favour to the Woman of Many Years, and that was already too much. 

“What is it?” Alistair asked, face closer than before.

“What?”

Alistair’s eyes flicked down to where Mahariel’s fingers had dug into his wrist. Mahariel let go and clasped her hands behind her back.

“I don’t think I’ll like what you’ll say,” said Alistair.

And he was right. Mahariel pushed away from the wall of men and addressed Morrigan. “We’ll come with you.”

Daveth pointed an accusatory finger at Morrigan. “She’ll put us all in the pot, she will. Just you watch.”

Mahariel suspected Daveth was just about to rip his own hair out, then start on Ser Jory’s.

Ser Jory, who didn't have the hair to spare, slapped Daveth on the back. “If the pot’s warmer than this forest, it’d be a nice change.”

Morrigan strode to them, stoped a few feet in front of Mahariel. “Follow me, then, if it pleases you.”

None of them were exactly pleased to follow a possible Witch of the Wilds, but they did so anyway. 

True to her word, Morrigan led the group to a hut that hunkered by the banks of a rippling pond not more than a ten minute hike from the old Warden fort. A small fire sputtered in the middle of the clearing between the shack and the edge of the water, surrounded by four empty seats. At the head of those rough wooden stools was an old woman with a patchy blanket over her outstretched legs. Her right arm dropped to the ground to pluck a red apple from a wicker basket at the foot of her chair. As she looked up and bit into her apple, her eyes passed over the group briefly and she laughed. Aside from the yellow eyes, she had little resemblance to Morrigan. But perhaps she was pretty once.

“Mother,” Morrigan said, as she went to stand behind the old woman. “I bring you four Grey Wardens who—”

“I see them girl,” the old woman said, voice like grating stones. Again her eyes swept around the group; briefly over Ser Jory, a beat on Daveth, three whole seconds on Alistair, who squirmed in his armor. Then her attention arrived on Mahariel, but rather than look into her eyes as she had done with the others, the old woman’s eyes followed the sweeps and swirls on Mahariel’s face. “Now that is a vallaslin I haven’t seen before,” she rasped, then in a louder voice, “Much as I expected.”

Electricity ran down Mahariel’s spine. By the Creators, what had they been pulled into. 

“Are we supposed to believe you were expecting us,” Alistair said, sounding like he was at the brink of laughter. 

Mahariel looked at the fire and the four empty chairs. Smoke rose from behind the house, bringing with it the heavy scent of game. She wished she could tell Alistair that none of these could be simple coincidences. The Dalish knew well enough the magic that the Asha’bellanar wielded; predicting the future was not impossible. It was the why that worried Mahariel more. Why wait for their arrival? 

“You are required to do nothing,” the old woman said. “Least of all believe. Shut one’s eyes tight or open one’s arms wide, either way one’s a fool.”

“She’s a witch I tell you,” Daveth said, not bothering to whisper a little quieter. Mahariel wished he would stop talking for now. “We shouldn’t be talking to her.”

Ser Jory pulled the man back by the elbow. “Quiet, Daveth. If she’s really a witch, do you want her mad?”

Finally, they began to understand. 

The old woman laughed. “There is a smart lad. Sadly irrelevant to the larger scheme of things. But it is not I who decides. Believe what you will.”

Mahariel tried her best not to, but she frowned. There was something about the Asha’bellanar’s speech that tingled in her mind. What was irrelevant, her being a witch or Ser Jory being a smart lad? Or Ser Jory himself? Who decides? What do they decide?

Asha’bellanar’s yellow eyes snapped to Mahariel, as if she heard the questions running in her mind. She raised a thin arm, presenting the empty chairs. “Sit, please. Or not.”

Mahariel looked at Morrigan, who shrugged. Morrigan, who would be a rather powerful witch if she were indeed Asha’bellanar’s daughter. Mahariel sighed. If they were to mingle with Witches of the Wilds, they might as well be comfortable. Daveth rushed to take a seat, choosing the one farthest from Morrigan and her mother. Ser Jory claimed the seat across him. That left Alistair and Mahariel the two seats on either side of the old woman. To Alistair’s credit, he didn’t gingerly settle into the stool. In fact he still had a rather amused expression. That was worrying for a different reason.

The Asha’bellanar leaned closer to Mahariel, so close that the latter caught a whiff of tarty apple on her breath. “And what of you? Does your elvhen mind give you a different viewpoint? What do you believe?”

Mahariel fought the need to lean back, the urge to run away into the woods and take a deep breath of the frigid air. “I only have suspicions. I don’t know what to believe.”

The old woman snapped straight. “A statement that possess more wisdom than it implies. Be always aware...or was it oblivious? I can never remember. But tell me, what are these suspicions of yours, hm?”

“I...think I know your name.” Mahariel’s nape tingled as the eyes of her companions studied her. From the corner of her eye, she saw the questioning eyebrow-raise Alistair was giving her.

Morrigan’s mother hummed, the tips of her thin lips curling upward. “And what name might this be?”

Mahariel straightened on her seat. “Asha’bellanar.”

The old woman closed her eyes and sighed. “Ah, an old name. Almost as old as Flemeth. And what else do you know outside of that name?”

“Only that you wield magic, and have lived long.”

Asha’bellanar, or Flemeth, opened her eyes, which seemed to glow brighter. “There is enough truth in that. The People are strong, made stronger by spirits like yours.” 

What? Mahariel wanted to ask, but the Asha’bellanar waved a bony hand up and down over her. “So much about you is uncertain. Yet I believe. Do I?” She cocked her head, nodded. “Why, it seems I do!”

The old woman cackled, head thrown back to expose the bob of her throat. 

“You’re the dreaded Witch of the Wilds?” Alistair blurted. Apparently he had reached the limit of his curiosity. 

Flemeth leaned toward Alistair. “And what of you? You whose blood is impure? What do you believe, hm?”

“That depends, are you talking about this moment right now?”

Mahariel would have kicked Alistair’s foot if he weren’t so far and if Flemeth’s legs weren’t in the way.

“You quip and joke, but you know what is underneath. You already know where that will take you. Or was that your father?”

Alistair froze, only for a second, then he shook his head and levelled a glare at Flemeth. “What would you know of him?”

“More than you do. Was that more like the Witch of the Wilds for you?” Flemeth laughed, which Morrigan rolled her eyes at. “Witch of the Wilds, eh? Morrigan must have told you that. She fancies such tales though she’d never admit it! Oh how she dances under the moon.”

Mahariel chanced a glance at Morrigan again, trying to connect the impression she had of the woman to what her mother said. The young woman had a hand on her forehead. 

“They did not come to listen to your _ wild _ tales, mother.”

That sobered the old woman. “They came for their treaties, yes?” She turned to Alistair. “And before you begin barking, your precious seals wore off long ago. I have protected these.”

She swept up her blanket, bent over, and pulled a smaller wicker basket from under her outstretched legs. In it were five folded letters, each sealed with a blue wax stamped with a rearing griffon, much like the emblem on Alistair’s breastplate. 

Alistair jerked forward, staring at the pristine cream paper. “You protected them?”

Flemeth shrugged. “And why not? Take them to your Grey Wardens and tell them this Blight’s threat is greater than they realize.”

“Meaning what?” Ser Jory asked, who also leaned over his seat to look at the treaties. He and Daveth had been so quiet that Mahariel forgot they were there.

Flemeth waved a hand. “That hardly matters for you at the moment.”

The knight blinked, mouth open. “But what—”

“Thank you,” Mahariel told the Asha’bellanar, who chuckled.

“Such manners! Always in the last place you look. Like stockings!”

And just like that the image of the Asha'bellanar’s thin wrinkly stockinged legs popped into Mahariel’s mind and she had to bite her lips to keep from laughing. Alistair bent low to pick up the basket with the letters; he looked at her as he came back up, and Mahariel saw the grin on his face. 

Stockings, he mouthed, which was the key to the smile Mahariel tried to cage. 

“You have what you came for,” Flemeth said. “Now don’t mind me.”

“Time for you to go, then,” Morrigan said in a tone that made Mahariel imagine Morrigan wiping her hands.

Flemeth hummed. “Do not be ridiculous, girl. These are your guests.”

“You don’t have to—” Daveth began, but Morrigan talked over him.

“I shall show you out of the woods. Follow me.”

Morrigan brushed past her mother, not looking back as she took the path they had arrived on. Daveth and Ser Jory followed, also not looking back. Then Alistair stood, the Grey Warden treaties secured in his pack. He hesitated in front of Flemeth, glanced at Mahariel, then turned to follow the others.

Mahariel crossed her forearms over her chest and inclined her head. “Thank you again, Asha’bellanar. My clan owes—”

Flemeth threw her blanket aside and rose from her chair. Even as an old woman she cleared Mahariel by five inches or so. “There will be a time for that. Everything has its own time. Mine will come; but now, it is yours.” She waved her hand in a shooing gesture. 

As Mahariel ran to join the others, she couldn’t shake the feeling in her gut that Flemeth had been talking about specific time, exact moments in which she already knew the what, where, when, and who. Whatever she meant, Flemeth was right on one thing; there will be time for that later. For now, she had to cure herself first.

* * *

For the first few hours of bumbling along in the Korcari Wilds, getting their hands bloodied with darkspawn and whatnot, Alistair thought he had truly and finally offended Mahariel after refusing to answer her one question for the third time. As Alistair and Mahariel had searched for Daveth and Jory, their easy conversation seemed to ebb. And when the other recruits had joined them, Mahariel had stopped talking altogether. Was it the new company that raised her wall? She didn’t outright ignore the other two, though she didn’t attempt to introduce herself either. She only spoke when she had to: she told them to stay close to her as she held a sour-smelling incense to repel the wolves, she asked them to wait while she fetched white flowers from mossy logs for a sick mabari, she yelled for Ser Jory to duck before leaping off his back to decapitate a hurlock.

Then the Chasind witch showed herself, and suddenly Mahariel was in control of the conversation. Alistair thought her to be too trusting, but she had that steady look that told him she knew what she was doing. Perhaps she did. Perhaps she was just that good at improvising. Either way, they got the treaties back from the dreaded Witch of the Wilds. Or at least Jory and Daveth dreaded her. Alistair himself didn't trust Flemeth; especially not when she could say simple things yet rankle every joint in Alistair's body. What would a witch who lived in a swap know about his father anyway? Did she even know who his father was? No, she couldn’t. She could have easily said the same things about his mother and it would affect Alistair the same way. Yes, it was better not to think about whatever Flemeth said. Mahariel seemed to tickle something in the witch though, what with the way she watched her and questioned her, like she was leading Mahariel to some answers. And Mahariel seemed to respect, if not fear, Flemeth. Yet Alistair was the strange one? 

When they were close to the gate to Ostagar, and the witch Morrigan had gone, Alistair pulled Mahariel aside.

“What is it you called the Witch of the Wilds? Ash-something.”

Her right ear twitched. Elves can move their ears? Though from the frown that followed, the tick seemed involuntary. 

“Asha’bellanar,” Mahariel said. “Woman of many years. We’re lucky to have found her cooperative.”

“Do the Dalish believe in the stories about Flemeth, then?”

“I’m not sure what your stories say. But how she came to be matters less than what we know she’s capable of. My clan had crossed her path, once, before I was born.”

Perhaps that explained Flemeth’s interest in Mahariel? Old acquaintances and such. Alistair and Mahariel were silent until they crossed the gate again, back within the safety of walls. Safety from wolves and witches and whatever lived in the Wilds, at least. Not from Mahariel’s sudden question.

“I suppose it’s time to drink darkspawn blood?”

Alistair paused, barely for a second, before continuing toward the three figures waiting by Duncan’s fire. But apparently the hesitation was enough for Mahariel. Maker, he had to stop freezing every time someone caught him off guard.

“This isn’t the worst part, is it?”

Alistair hummed—almost whined, really. “Look, I’m not supposed to say anything. Besides, you’ll find out for yourself soon enough. I promise you’ll understand everything.” He looked into her eyes, trying to tell her what he couldn’t verbally say. “You already have the answers.”

Later, Alistair and the three recruits gathered at the ruined altar nestled at the tip of the long meeting hall. It was one of a number of areas of Ostagar that had complete, undamaged columns, as well as having a roof. Daveth and Jory stood by the altar in the middle of the octagonal floor as they argued the merits of joining the wardens: the former saw the end of the darkspawn threat as worth his life, while the latter began to doubt his decision to leave his pregnant wife for noble glory. Mahariel, on the other hand, sat on the railing that connected eight slender columns, silent and watching. She was stretching her fingers, turning the silver ring on her left hand over and over, as Alistair approached. The sharp smell of incense wafted from her skin.

“You’re not nervous?” he asked.

She chuckled, short and dry. “It doesn’t matter. I’ll die if I don’t do the ritual.”

Alistair kept his face blank. He kept his eyes on Mahariel’s even if they seemed to bore into his soul, searching for all his secrets. He wanted to wish her luck, to warn her about the effects the ritual will have, to share tips on how not to fall on your face and break your nose when you passed out. He groaned. “Fine. The Joining is very…well, unpleasant. It’s not something you easily forget.”

She tilted her head, as though she could better read Alistair’s thoughts. Her answer, when it came, was so soft that Alistair had to lean down to listen.

“The Joining is fatal.”

Of course not, Alistair wanted to say, but he would be lying. So he kept shut instead, kept watch on the rise and fall of Mahariel's shoulders and every twitch of her eyes.

She took a shaky breath between her teeth. For a moment she teetered on the railing, but she caught herself by slamming her back against the column. “So I can still die? After all this I could still die from the taint?”

Alistair held her shoulders and bent to look her in the eye. “Perhaps. I don’t know what makes a Joining successful, but I know that the taint hasn’t weakened you yet and that has to mean something.”

“Do not tell me that it means I'm strong.”

Alistair smiled. “Actually I was going to say that maybe your body is especially receptive to the taint and can therefore adjust better than average.”

Mahariel paused at that, lips slightly parted. “There’s sense in that,” she said cautiously. Then she chuckled, raised her chin. “Do you know why a secret is a secret?”

“Because it can destroy the world, or haunt you to death, or make you explode in embarrassment? Or all three.”

That got a laugh from her. Still grim, but at least it came with genuine amusement.

The amusement died quickly when Ser Jory drew his weapon. Duncan swung his sword, slipped through Jory’s block, before Mahariel could reach them. The two steps she took just weren't enough. The knight fell to the ground, gasping, eyes strained on Daveth’s body by the altar.

“How dare you.” Mahariel’s voice was low, clear, louder than Alistair had ever heard it before. It trembled as it tried to restrain her anger. “You could have sworn him to secrecy!”

Duncan sheathed his blade, calmly turning to the last recruit. This was it. If Mahariel didn’t survive, well, not only will Alistair have nightmares of this very night, the Wardens and the King’s army would also lose three highly skilled fighters. Well, they already lost two.

Duncan sighed, broad chest caving. “Like I told you once when we first met: we do what we must. It brings me no pleasure to end his life. The Blight demands sacrifices from us all. But the Joining is not yet over.”

Taking two steps closer, Duncan held the simple bronze chalice to Mahariel, who glared at it. Her eyes landed on Ser Jory, then on Daveth. “He was a knight,” she said. “His honour would have bound him to the secret.”

“And it would haunt him as a warrior, that he could not commit his life to fight the darkspawn, that his courage was not enough for him to risk the Joining.”

Eyes wide and fists clenched, Mahariel turned to Alistair. Something squeezed in his chest, and how he wished he had the words to calm her, or at least alleviate her anger toward Duncan. But all he could say was, “I’m sorry.”

Mahariel scoffed. “His wife is pregnant, is she not?”

“Yes,” Alistair and Duncan said at the same time. Maker, that poor woman and child. Alistair shifted from foot to foot.

With a curse, Mahariel grabbed the cup from Duncan and brought the rim to her lips. She swallowed once, gagged, then slapped a hand over her mouth; the dark potion dribbled over her fingers. Alistair coughed, as though the rust and burn of the potion sizzled on his tongue again. The cup cluttered to the marble floor as Mahariel fell to her knees. Like Daveth had. Alistair shot Duncan a look, which the latter replied with a jerk of his chin.

Mahariel heaved on the ground, back jerking as her body tried to expel the blood she drank, her full weight supported by trembling forearms. Her shoulders shook, hands balled into fists. Alistair heard the intake of breath, sudden and deep, then a scream cracked his skull. Wrath. Grief. Pain. All three drummed at his chest, paralyzed him. Mahariel’s cry rang in his ears, choked his own voice. Then instead of Mahariel’s writhing figure, Drummond was in front of him again, choking and crying blood. Nails peeling from fingertips as they clawed bricks. Gasps and curses came from four other recruits even as the Warden Riordan offered a prayer for the warrior.

Then silence. Alistair shook his head, gulped chilly air as he braced himself against the railing. In the middle of the room, at the altar's feet, Mahariel collapsed on her side, blue light escaping underneath her eyelashes. Duncan and Alistair ran to her, eased her onto her back. Air wheezed in her throat, but her chest rose and fell. 

“Maker’s breath,” Alistair sighed. “And I thought my Joining was a disaster.”

Duncan, still on his knees as he pressed two fingers to Mahariel’s wrist, cast his eyes on the two fallen recruits and offered a prayer. Then he took Mahariel into his arms, lifted her from the blood-soaked stone. “Their sacrifice is not in vain.”

Fires fluttered to life throughout the king’s camp as Alistair wiped the sweat from the brow of their newest Grey Warden. Aside from the shifting of her eyes under her eyelids, Mahariel had not stirred. Though she did groan and mumble. An elvhen word: tamlen.

“They’re nightmares,” Alistair said during one of her fits. “You’re right here in Ostagar."

Perhaps she heard him, since she calmed. Perhaps she wasn’t that terrified of the multi-horned archdemon screeching at her, of the endless army of darkspawn writhing underground. A twitch of her hand warned Alistair to move away. Just in time as Mahariel lurched up, gasping. Apparently, all new wardens woke up the same way.

“Dragon,” she rasped. She turned to him, blue light shimmered at the edge of her irises, then vanished as she blinked.

“The archdemon,” Alistair said. He wanted to put a comforting hand on her shoulder, but he wasn’t sure if it would be welcomed at that moment. “The wardens have nightmares. Visions of the archdemon and the horde.”

A shadow blocked the light from outside, then a grave voice continued, “Such dreams come when you begin to sense the darkspawn, as we all do. That and many other things can be explained in the coming months.”

Mahariel opened her mouth, clearly to argue judging from the tilt of her chin, but Duncan cut her off with a raised palm. “For now, you and I need to meet with the king. He has requested your presence, though I’m not sure why.”

A glint sparked in Mahariel’s eyes—reflection from the candlelight or something else, Alistair didn’t know. She turned those eyes on him, and asked, “Are you coming too?”

Alistair chuckled. “Me? Oh, no. No one ever requests my presence. Not that I’d want to listen to Cailan and Loghain argue about strategy.”

“Alistair.”

Amazing how Duncan turned his name into a warning. “Alright, alright. But before I forget.” Alistair took the leather pouch by the candle on the table and handed it to Mahariel, who narrowed her eyes at it. Instead of assuring her it won’t bite, Alistair dumped its content on his palm: a tear-shaped glass pendant filled with red liquid hanging on a silver chain.

Mahariel lifted the amulet from his palm and, with two fingers, held the pendant against the light. “Is that blood?”

At least she didn’t freak out about that. Alistair had been wary of wearing his after his joining. Until they told him its meaning, that is. After that he never took of the silver-and-glass tube that rested at the base of his throat. “We take some of the darkspawn blood from the ritual, to remind us of our oath and of those who didn’t make it this far.”

Mahariel unhooked the lock and secured the magically-enforced amulet around her neck. “Daveth and Ser Jory.”

And Drummond, and many others. The tension released Alistair’s shoulders, knowing for certain that at least one recruit survived this time.

“And now your Joining is complete,” Duncan said.

Alistair held his hand out to Mahariel. Her eyes flicked between his hand and his face. Smiling, Alistair took her right hand and placed it against his. His fingertips touched when he wrapped them around her knuckles. Mahariel slowly mimicked the gesture, and Alistair grinned.

“Welcome to the Grey Wardens, Mahariel.”


	4. To Battle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Mahariel wakes up as a new Grey Warden, she is also waking to the truth of her new life: the world is so much bigger and the are many things she doesn't yet know.

_ Join us, brothers and sisters. Join us in the shadows where we stand vigilant. Join us as we carry the duty that can not be forsworn. And should you perish, know that your sacrifice will not be forgotten. And that one day we shall join you. _

Mahariel pulled the heavy wool cloak tighter around her neck as the late night wind had its free reign through the open temple where she had watched two men die just the night before. The large dark spot by her feet shown black in the moonlight, but Mahariel had stared at it under a torchlight long enough to know which paints to mix to mimic the deep red of Daveth’s blood. To the left, against one of the lattice railings, was a less-dark splatter that accumulated at the grooves between floor and railing. Smudges on the floor told Mahariel that a cleaning crew had been there recently.

Perhaps it was the same cleaning crew that Mahariel heard coming up the steps of the old temple. They were murmuring something about aching arms, and stronger soaps. Their conversation halted as Mahariel pulled down her hood and turned to them. There were three of them, each holding a full bucket and a torch, which reflected in their large glowing eyes. 

“Oh,” said the woman in front. Her smile was pleased, if surprised. “It is nice to see another elf here.”

Mahariel couldn’t help but smile at that. “There are two right next to you.”

The elf laughed, set her bucket on the ground, and shoved her torch into the sconce bolted to the column at the entryway. “Yes, but I’m tired of the faces of these two.”

The younger elf behind her, another woman, clicked her tongue while the only male with them set about lighting the two small braziers that flanked the altar. 

“Is it true you are a Grey Warden?” the man asked, which earned him sharp looks from his friends.

“Don’t mind him ser,” said the younger woman as she knelt on the spot Ser Jory had fallen. “It is not our place. Though we are curious.”

“Then ask.” Mahariel looked at the man. “I am a Grey Warden, as of yesterday.”

The man huffed, then grinned. “I never knew our kind can join the Wardens. If I knew how to fight, perhaps I would join too.” His eyes dropped to the red stains on the floor. “Or perhaps not.”

The first woman who greeted Mahariel scoffed. “Best to keep your head low, Navin.”

The man, Navin, sighed. But he set his bucket close to the puddle of Daveth’s blood and fished a hard brush from the soapy water. “They should have called us to clean earlier. Before it dried.”

Mahariel stepped out of the way, hopping up on the railing she had sat on at the night of the ritual. “I go by Mahariel. And you're Navin—” she nodded to the man, who waved a hand in return. “What about you two?”

“Felicia, ser,” said the younger woman, pausing in her scrubbing to bow.

“And I am Celia.” She tucked the hem of her skirt into her waist band. “Felicia and I are cousins, both from the Denerim alienage.”

"Alienage?" Mahariel tucked the new word into the growing box of Common Tongue. 

The three threw glances at each other until Felicia's and Navin's eyes settled on Celia. "Where us elves live in the cities," she said, though her tone rose as though in question. "Do they call it different where you are from?"

So that was how the humans and city elves call the elvhen slums. Alienage. Mahariel pulled her cloak tighter. "I am Dalish.

The three gasped in unison. Navin dropped his brush with a wet plop. "You joke!" he said. "That was a joke, wasn't it?"

Felicia ducked her head and scrubbed harder while Celia stared. She squinted her eyes, and Mahariel knew she was studying the bright red patterns on her face. Mahariel leaned back in her seat, letting the soft light of the moon shine on her face a little. In the silence that followed as Navin and Celia simply looked at her, Felicia peeked from under her lashes and, seeing her companions stare openly without being rebuked, she too turned to Mahariel. For the most part, Mahariel welcomed their gazes; they were curious rather than afraid, they reached out instead of pushed away, they asked and Mahariel would answer. If only all Dalish and all City elves would react the way Felicia, Celia, and Navin did.

"It's called a vallaslin," Mahariel said.

"Vallaslin," Navin repeated. "And what does it mean?"

"They look rather like those tattoos the Antivan ambassadors have," Felicia said.

Mahariel ran a fingertip over her cheekbone. The skin was already smooth there, though she saw in her mind the gentle curve just under her eye, like an arm of a bow, curling upward closer to her temple while hooking downward at the apple of her cheeks. As her fingertip followed the bone, Mahariel imagined the five dots that rested there, one bigger than the last as they moved inward. "It means 'blood-writing'," she said, softer than how she said those words yesterday. The three didn't say a word, though their eyes were intent. "The Keeper, the clan's leader, would tattoo it on our face using our own blood and sacred ink."

"It must have hurt," Celia said. 

Mahariel smiled. "It must have. I don't remember it much."

Navin and Felicia touched their bare face. "Was it that bad?" Navin asked.

Mahariel shook her head. "No, no. I was...I had other things on my mind." Rather, she had someone on her mind. Tamlen, so dear and so close to her that it pained her as much as it thrilled her to simply look at a clear sky, for it was the same color as his eyes. Mahariel leaned her head back against the column, eyes closing as she waited for the lump in her throat to disappear. “Denerim is far north, yes?”

The three were silent for a beat, then the _shhick shhick shhick _of coarse bristles against stone resumed. Mahariel glanced at them, thankful for their discretion.

“That is right,” said Celia as she knelt across Navin. “We work at the palace, and where King Cailan says, we go.”

“Has he found a new stable hand?” Navin asked, looking up suddenly.

“No, but it hardly matters since you’re here and not there.”

“True.” Navin swiped a hand through his hair before resuming his work. “So if you could tell us, Mahariel, what happened here last night?”

How could Mahariel answer that? Should she say that a thief died drinking a magical potion? That the Grey Warden commander killed a knight from Redcliffe? “I’m not allowed to say.” How quickly she adopted the Warden’s penchant for secrecy. “But it wasn’t pleasant.”

All three cleaners grunted in agreement.

“We’ll need more water,” Celia said.

Mahariel hopped from her seat. “Where can I get them?”

“Um,” Felicia said, shifting on the floor as she glanced at Celia and Navin. “You’re a Grey Warden.”

“Who has been asleep for a whole day. I need to stretch my muscles.” And her mind needed to remain in the present. Besides, the adjacent meeting hall where she was supposed to meet Duncan and the King’s council was dark and empty.

The three shared looks for a few more seconds, then Celia shrugged and directed Mahariel to a trough by the kennels.

The king’s camp, which Mahariel had thought to be the first half of the whole army until Alistair told her the Grey Wardens were stationed at the main camp, didn’t produce less activity at night than it did in the daylight. The people just did their jobs a little quieter. It was only the detached Circle camp that had the least to no movement; only a handful of lamps shone atop tables that were surrounded by huddled figures with books and maps, the Templars that watched the mages were as silent and unmoving as ever.

At the far west of the grounds, Teyrn Loghain’s green and orange tent was dark and silent; no yelling or thrown items. The King, the Teyrn, and Duncan must all be at the main camp; why else would they be late to the meeting that they themselves had arranged? 

The howls and barks of war dogs grew closer as Mahariel strode south, almost to the gate that opened to the Wilds. The air was warmer there, a little bit sour and a little sticky sweet, possibly due to cooking fires and the warm bodies of the huddled Ash Warriors and their large painted hounds. Mahariel was glad for the warmth, if not the scents. To think that she had walked around the camp for a whole day with her shirt half open. She shivered at the thought.

Mahariel was within ten paces of the kennels when kennel master Jordan hailed her with a raised arm and a happy “hello again, friend.”

Mahariel gave him a nod, unwilling to remove her hands from under her arms. “The mabari survived?”

Jordan slapped the wooden fence that kept his hounds and gestured to the stall that Mahariel had entered yesterday so she could muzzle the sick hound. “See for yourself.”

The mabari, a large muscular hound with coarse brown coat, lay on its side with its snout twitching. Its hearty flank rose and fell with a steady rhythm that almost lulled Mahariel to sleep.

“Is he completely cured?”

Jordan pulled on his earlobe. “I wouldn’t say completely, but his life isn’t in any more danger. Not only that, now we have extra materials to make the antidote if any of the hounds swallows darkspawn blood again; all thanks to you.”

The mabari huffed in his sleep, as if agreeing.

Mahariel crouched, stuck her arm between two slats, and ran her hand down the mabari’s side. “How did you know to cure them?”

Jordan eyed Mahariel’s hand on the hound, scratched his fingers down his bearded jaw, then leaned against the fence. “There was a Chasind among the Ash Warriors; they frequent the Wilds to watch the horde’s movements, and they always have their hounds with them. I figured they found the flower’s properties by trial and error.”

Or maybe the Chasind knew exactly what the flower was and what it can do. Giving the mabari a last pet, Mahariel said her farewell to the kennel master. She had half a mind to pose her questions to the Ash Warriors, but Celia and the others needed their water.

By the time Mahariel and Felicia had scrubbed away Ser Jory’s crusted blood from the column, an entourage marched into the adjacent meeting hall, the light of their torches sent rodents skittering away just as the thump of their boots and arguing voices sent crows flying off. 

Mahariel turned to Felicia, Celia, and Navin. “I must go. Perhaps I’ll find you once the meeting is over.”

Navin raised his hand in a wave. “If you need anything, please let us know.”

“_Dareth shiral, lethallin._” Mahariel crossed her forearms over her chest and bowed to them. As she descended the stairs that lead to the hall, she heard Navin muse over the wonder that one of their own was a member of a respected order.

One of their own. Mahariel smiled. 

That smile wobbled and fell off her face when she joined Duncan at a long candle-lit table with a large map of Ostagar.

“You risk too much, Cailan,” Teyrn Loghain said. From the sigh that followed, it was not the first time he uttered those words. “The darkspawn horde is too dangerous for you to be playing hero at the front line.”

It was dangerous for anyone on the front lines. Especially for someone who had no experience in war. Mahariel rubbed her hands down her arms, both for warmth and to ease the rising goosebumps. 

King Cailan shrugged. “If that’s the case, perhaps we should wait for the Orlesian forces to join us, after all.”

Orlesian?

Duncan leaned closer to Mahariel and whispered, “I have summoned the Grey Wardens in Orlais, even before the King ordered me to do so. But it would be a while yet before they arrive.”

Across them, Teyrn Loghain pressed his fists on the table. “I must repeat my protest to your _ fool _ notion that we need the _ Orlesians _ to defend ourselves!”

If Duncan hadn’t told Mahariel about the Teyrn’s part in freeing Ferelden from Orleasian rule, she would still feel the man’s hatred and mistrust of the empire just from looking at the general's hard eyes. Mahariel could hardly blame him. The Orlesian Empire broke their word to the People once, and to this day pretended as though they were in the right. King Cailan apparently thought differently.

“It is not a fool notion,” he said, leaning over to look at the Teyrn in the face. “Our arguments with the Orlesians are a thing of the past. And you will remember who is king.”

The entire hall seemed to take a deep breath. Even Duncan rolled his shoulders as though his joints didn’t sit comfortably. 

Teyrn Loghain glared down at the map, his voice a slow rumble. “How fortunate Maric did not live to see his son ready to hand Ferelden over to those who enslaved us for a century.”

The king stood straight, clasped his hands behind his back. “Then our current forces will have to suffice, won’t they?”

Mahariel stared at the king’s young fair face, framed with golden hair; it was the same open face that greeted her only yesterday. But now, in the dim flickering candlelight, in front of his general and his court, Mahariel noticed his solid stance—back straight, weight equal on both legs. She noticed the width of his shoulders and his limbs, surely trained into being by swinging the longsword at his hip and carrying the iron that protected his entire body. How had she not noticed? She had believed his carefree naivete, let his light demeanor trick her into treating him as an idealistic king eager to follow in his father’s footsteps. Yet here, she just watched him use the Hero of River Dane’s weakness to get what he wanted. There was something to be criticized about what the king wanted, but still, he got it.

The king turned to face the council, who had their eyes averted until then. “Duncan, are your men ready for battle?”

“They are, Your Majesty.”

King Cialan’s blue eyes turned to Mahariel. “And this is the young Dalish I met earlier? I understand congratulations are in order.”

Blue eyes, golden hair. Mahariel pinched herself at the crook of her arm. “Thank you, Your Majesty.”

“Every Grey Warden is needed more than ever.”

The Teyrn pushed off from the table and rounded on Cailan. “Your fascination with glory and legends will be your undoing, Cailan. We must attend to reality.”

Mahariel thought she heard a drop of pleading in his voice, though it was drowned by an ocean of frustration. 

Thankfully, the king shrugged. “Fine. Speak your strategy. The Grey Wardens and I draw the darkspawn into charging our lines, and then?”

Teyrn Loghain pulled the map of Ostagar closer to the candles melted right onto the table. “You will alert the tower to light the beacon, signalling my men to charge from cover.”

“To flank the darkspawn,” the king added. “I remember.”

Mahariel looked at the dark lines that represented the ruins and the borders of the Wilds. A heavy spiky ball settled into her stomach as she realized that all the towers and bridges and forts of Ostagar could fit several times over within the blank space labelled as the Korcari Wilds. Did the darkspawn horde cover every inch of the Wilds? They had met six separate scouting parties, after all, and Mahariel and the others had only visited the edges. If the darkspawn outnumbered the army as Duncan had mentioned, would flanking the horde be effective? What if the darkspawn overpowered the Wardens and left the Teyrn’s men to fight two fronts? Creators, should Mahariel survive, she’d need to read books on war strategies.

The king’s finger landed on a sketch of a tower labelled: Tower of Ishal. It sat on the northern wing of the ruins, across a bridge. “Who shall light this beacon?”

The teyrn was quick to offer his men, who were already stationed there. As Mahariel studied the map, it occurred to her that it was the very same tower she and Duncan had passed upon entering Ostagar, the one the Teyrn had closed off because of previously undiscovered tunnels. 

“Duncan, didn’t you send Wardens down there?”

Duncan raised a dark eyebrow at her. “Yes, though we could only spare two.”

By ‘we’ Mahariel was sure he meant the king.

“The Wardens are vital in the front lines,” the king confirmed. He looked at Mahariel, eyes squinting as if trying to see her better. “Lighting the beacon is also a vital task. We should send our best. Duncan, send Alistair and Mahariel here to make sure it is done.”

Mahariel crossed her arms, as if pressing down on her middle would settle her stomach. “If it’s not dangerous, as the Teyrn says, I can do it alone.” Besides, she heard the disappointment in Alistair’s voice when he mentioned Duncan kept him out of the fight.

But the king was quick and sure with his answer. “No. It’s best that you _ both _ go.”

“You rely on these Grey Wardens too much,” Teyrn Loghain warned. “Is that truly wise?”

Mahariel had to agree with the man. If the Wardens were needed on the front lines, why send two more away from the fighting?

King Cialan sighed, rubbing his temple. That was perhaps the first sign of exhaustion Mahariel had seen from him. “Enough of your conspiracy theories, Loghain. Grey Wardens battle the Blight no matter where they are from.”

“The Wardens are not loyal to one kingdom, that is part of our oath,” Duncan assured. “But Your Majesty, you should consider the possibility of the archdemon appearing.”

Mahariel hadn’t even considered that. A dragon, master of the sky, raining fire on everything below. Rows of sharp yellow teeth, longer than Mahariel’s forearm, in a maw thrice the height of men. Six horns, or protruding bones, haloed bright green eyes. Slitted pupils dilating as it caught Mahariel. A screeching roar, at once like rusted hinges and crumbling mountains. 

Mahariel jerked, felt a warm grip on her elbow.

Duncan watched her from the corner of his eyes. “Easy, now,” he said with a gentle squeeze, before returning his attention to the meeting.

“Unnecessary!” cried a nasally voice. 

A bald man in green robes stood next to the king, while an old woman in a yellow robe with an embroidered sunburst on its chest glared over his shoulder. Apparently Mahariel lost track long enough for these two people to come to the end of their argument for the king.

“I assure you, Your Majesty,” the man in the green robe said. “The Circle of Magi—”

“We will not trust any lives to your spells, mage,” the woman shrilled. Mahariel had a feeling this was the revered mother. “Save them for the darkspawn.”

“One mage can easily light a fire; from afar even,” Mahariel said. “If the problem is lacking numbers on the front lines, then perhaps a mage could simply create a flare on the battlefield, let that be the beacon. That would remove the need for Wardens or soldiers to be relegated to the tower.”

The mage hummed, spinning the shaft of his staff. “Yes, it is certainly possible to send the flare high enough and big enough for the Teyrn to see.” 

“The Circle will do no such thing.” The chantry woman turned her squinty eyes at Mahariel. “And what would you know of what a mage is capable of?”

“I know a few spells to communicate without the need to light beacons.” Well, she knew their glyphs, but she didn’t have the means to activate them. 

The woman opened her mouth, possibly to accuse her of being a mage, when Teyrn Loghain thumped his fist on the table.

“Enough! This plan will suffice. The Grey Wardens will light the beacon.”

As the mage and the chantry mother retreated to join their respective circles, King Cailan clapped the Teyrn on the shoulder. 

“Thank you, Loghain. I cannot wait for that glorious moment! The Grey Wardens beside the king of Ferelden to stem the tide of evil!”

Perhaps Mahariel was right in her initial impression of the king; idealistic, but with just enough awareness of himself and his surroundings to stay on equal ground with Teyrn Loghain.

The Teyrn turned away from the table, his men following close behind. “Yes, Cailan. A glorious moment for all of us.”

“I think the Teyrn hates him,” Mahariel shared as Duncan finished relaying the events of the meeting to Alistair. Their little group around the fire were one of the few left at the king’s camp. Those who were to join the battle had marched down to the galley that separated the north and south ruins of Ostagar; those who were not fighters had retreated to their tents. A semblance of quiet finally arrived at camp, heavy and unsure.

“They disagree,” Duncan said, setting his sword and dagger on the ground next to him. “The Teyrn knew the king since he was a child, and so they do not stand on formalities. However, hate is too strong a word.”

Alistair threw a twig into the fire, which popped and spat sparks into the air. “Oh, I don’t know. The Teyrn looks like a man who uses a lot of strong words.”

“He is intense,” Mahariel agreed.

Duncan sighed as he leaned his head back against the pillar he sat against. Above him, the marble statue of a woman pointed her sword at his head. “Enough of that. You heard the plan, Mahariel. You and Alistair will go to the Tower of Ishal to ensure that the beacon is lit no matter how simple or unexciting you think it is.”

His dark eyes were on Alistair as he said the last part. “It is by the king’s personal request.”

Alistair propped his chin on a palm as he wriggled another stick from a pile at his feet. “So he needs two Grey Wardens standing up there holding a torch. Just in case, right?”

Mahariel laughed. Alistair should have been at the meeting. The man knew how to point out the absurd in a way that multiplied the silliness of it all. Plus, the image of her and Alistair just standing there, holding torches, as battle raged under them was ridiculous. 

“This is not your choice,” Duncan said firmly. Mahariel pressed her lips close. “If King Cailan wishes Grey Wardens there, then Grey Wardens will be there. We must do whatever it takes to destroy the darkspawn.”

Whatever it takes. Such a dangerous line of thinking. What were the things Mahariel would do to find Tamlen? What would she not do? “Doesn’t that include ignoring royal orders in favour of a better plan?”

Duncan peered down at Mahariel with eyes that looked more ancient than the man who bore them. “I fear this is the best plan we have, considering that so many of us want different things.”

“Just so you know,” Alistair drawled from his stool by the fire, “if the king ever asks me to put on a dress and dance the Remigold, I’m drawing the line. Darkspawn or no.”

What? Remigold? In a dress? Creators, what ideas did Alistair have of the king? The man truly had a very strange mind. Even stranger, Mahariel found herself smiling. “Oh, that could be a great distraction against the darkspawn. One I’d like to see.”

Alistair pointed a twig at her. “For you, maybe. But it has to be a pretty dress.”

Mahariel laughed, covering her mouth with a hand to avoid rousing those who preferred a solemn moment before a battle. Duncan heaved a pained sigh. Oh, the odd silly things he must have heard and endured from Alistair’s mouth!

“I trust you remember how to get to the tower?”

Mahariel bit the inside of her cheek to reign in her grin. “I remember.”

Alistair threw another twig into the fire. “Where will you be, Duncan?”

Mahariel glanced at Alistair from the corner of her eye. His voice was muted somewhat, as if the fire ate a little bit of his earlier mirth just as it swallowed the twig. 

Duncan stretched his legs with a hum. “I will be fighting beside the king with the rest of the Grey Wardens. Again, at the king’s request.”

There was no change in Alistair’s expression, but there was something about the way his shoulders hung as he stared at the flames that felt sad, or disappointed. Did Alistair want to join the fight that much? Or was it about Duncan being in the front lines?

“We will signal you when the time is right. You know what to look for, Alistair?”

“Hm? Oh, yes. Of course.”

With a grunt, Duncan rose to his feet. “Any plan may go awry; keep your eyes open. I trust you both.”

“Just not enough to actually fight with the rest of you.”

Surprisingly, Duncan chuckled. He clasped a hand on Alistair's shoulder and gave him a small shake. “There will be plenty of battles, Alistair. Be patient.”

The commander really did have a soft spot. Mahariel appreciated Duncan a little more; she could have had a commander as hard as Teryn Loghain. And if Mahariel were being honest, Alistair and Duncan reminded her of herself and hahren Namassa. By the Creators, if only she could lock her memories in a box.

“And if the archdemon appears?” Alistair asked, looking up at his mentor.

Mahariel shook her head and focused on Duncan. She already missed the solution to this scenario once. 

Duncan frowned and squeezed Alistair’s shoulder. “If it does, leave it to us. I want no heroics from either of you.”

His eyes locked on Alistair, grim and unrelenting.

“I understand, Duncan.”

The Grey Warden commander turned those same dark eyes to Mahariel.

Mahariel didn’t plan on doing any heroics or anything reckless like charging the archdemon by herself, so she was confident and truthful in her nod. “Understood.”

“Good.” Duncan gave Alistair one more squeeze before he released his shoulder. “From here you two are on your own.”

Mahariel caught Alistair’s eyes. She wasn’t sure if it was confidence or doubt that she saw in his face. He held her gaze steadily, and his face was free of lines or droplets of sweat. From the color on his cheeks, his blood seemed to be circulating well. When Mahariel and Alistair had waited for the Joining ritual to begin the other day, they had asked for each other’s age; almost twenty, Alistair had mumbled. Sitting beside her, with the fire chasing away all shadows on Alistair’s smooth face, he looked so very young. Nineteen, and already fighting in a war.

Duncan cleared his throat. Mahariel raised her eyes in time to see Duncan approach with an outstretched hand, and she quickly stood to clasp it. “Remember, you both are Grey Wardens. I expect you to be worthy of that title.”

“I’ll do my best,” Mahariel said, to which Duncan chuckled.

He then offered his hand to Alistair. 

Alistair rose from his seat. His voice was rather soft, as he said, “May the Maker watch over you, Duncan.”

Instead of just a shake of the hand, Duncan pulled Alistair into a one-armed hug, their clasped hands between their chests. Alistair’s eyes flew wide at first, but his free arm was quick to hold onto Duncan’s back. “May He watch over us all.”

Mahariel turned her eyes to the fire, wishing she could cover her ears too. Duncan’s voice was too somber, too grim, too close to the word Mahariel hated the most.

In silver breastplate over grey and blue tunic, with sword and dagger at his hip, Duncan told them to be cautious then turned away. Mahariel and Alistair stood by the fire, quiet, as they watched Duncan’s back meld with the shadows. With the king’s camp practically empty and thick clouds gliding low in the night sky, the world suddenly felt too quiet, too big. For twenty-one years, Mahariel’s world had consisted of less than a hundred people; forests grew to mountains, mountains eroded to plains, but the hahrens and the elders and the children never changed—they aged and passed, yet it was always _ them_. It was always Mahariel and Tamlen, Tamlen and Fenarel, Fenarel and Mahariel, Mahariel, Tamlen, and Fenarel. By the Creators, Merrill was the only new face Mahariel had known in six years! Then she and Tamlen found a mirror, and here she was, separated from the clan, meeting with kings and nobles, talking of war.

“I’ve never fought in a war,” Mahariel said; half realization, half admission. 

Alistair shrugged, a rueful smile on his face. “Me neither. And certainly not on this scale.”

“I’ve never fought more than four enemies at once.”

“Four at once?” Alistair raised an eyebrow. “Is that a brag or a confession of shame?”

“They were walking corpses.”

Alistair studied her, then, chuckling, he leaned down and gave her shoulders a little shake. “Look, we’ll be out of the thick of it. Best case scenario, we get to watch the Wardens and the king’s army defeat the darkspawn from a wonderful view of the entire valley.”

Mahariel had a vision of the worst case scenario, in which they got to watch as the darkspawn slaughtered the Wardens and the King’s army from a wonderful yet isolated view of the entire valley. Instead of voicing her imagination, she closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and let it out slowly.

“It’s all so...soon.” Creators, she had been unconscious for the whole day. She had been sick and dying for the past week. And now the pressure of the war, of the darkspawn threat, of Tamlen being sick and suffering and waiting for her...Mahariel took another breath. “We should probably get to the tower.”

Alistair stared at her for a while, like he was making sure she didn’t have more untimely confessions to make. “We should. Just...stay close.”

Staying close was not an option once they reached the bridge. Mahariel followed Alistair by the clang of his boots alone, for she could not turn her eyes from the dark mass of the Fereldan army bristling from one end of the of the gorge to the other. At the front of hundreds or maybe thousands of lined soldiers, three rows shown bright silver and blue, the tips of winged helmets glinting under moonlight and fire. A shard of gold nestled in their midst, the head of the spear. Such a little speck compared to the whole, yet all those people followed this one king's lead. Before the army, the land stretched toward shadows; for miles and miles, Mahariel saw only blackness. Then a spark, followed by another, then another. The horizon _ whooshed _ to life, the towering pines of the Wilds painted black against the red haze of flames. 

The archers along the bridge raised their bows, arrows nocked. Above them, thunder cracked and water poured in. The clouds hovered low, with no intentions of moving soon.

“Lethanavir,” Mahariel whispered, “friend of the dead, be my guide through shapeless worlds and airless skies. See me through to the other side.”

From far below, a voice cried, echoed by another, then another, closer and closer.

“Archers!”

Around Mahariel, bows were raised, angled toward the horizon. Mahariel froze. The sudden stop of footsteps wrenched her eyes away from the starting battle, and she looked up to see Alistair leaning against the crenel ahead. The burning forest glowed in his wide eyes, and his gloved hands trembled. Mahariel took a half step to him when he turned, hooked his arms around the archers next to him and dove. The bridge exploded, something cracked against Mahariel’s right shoulder, dust and stone jumped into the air. Rain splattered Mahariel’s face, trickling into her mouth as she coughed for air. Her name mumbled in her ears, drowned by a ringing. Rolling to her knees, Mahariel spotted one of the archers a few feet behind her. Rather, she saw his torso shoved against the opposite wall of the bridge, his lower half crushed by a marble woman’s shield. 

“Alistair?” Mahariel climbed to her feet, wobbling to the spot where she last saw the Warden. A chunk of open air met her. “Alistair!”

“Mahariel? Over here.” A spot of flame waved across the break on the bridge, its light reflected on silver armor. 

As the rain fell harder, debris and dust settled on the ground, revealing groaning archers, chunks of stone, splintered arrows, and the five-foot gap that fell straight into the gully. Whatever hit them, they were lucky it landed between the bridge’s pillars. 

“Can you jump?” Alistair yelled. There was yelling behind, in front, below.

Mahariel stepped three paces backward, took a deep breath, then lowered her center. She kept her eyes on Alistair, whose brows were creased. Mahariel inhaled, exhaled. Push on three, push on three. Do not slip. 

Mahariel ran two long strides, then pushed forward on the third. She kept her eyes ahead, didn’t look at what wasn’t underneath her. The air whistled past her ears as the ground briefly released its hold on her. Then her left foot struck stone. Mahariel bent her knees, tucked her arms, lowered her left shoulder and let her momentum roll her body along the wet stone. She groaned to a stop, took a second to flex her limbs, another second to breathe, then sat up. Alistair was there, hair plastered to his forehead, hands ready to pull her up.

“I should have taken that armor,” Mahariel said as they ran. Who knew lighting a beacon would require more than hardened leather.

“The plate would have weighed you down, and you'd have fallen to your death.”

Mahariel conceded with a grunt. A bright ball streaked over their heads, and Mahariel veered left, ducking as another flaming ball arched over their heads. This one crashed into two of the slender spires that crowned a tower.

“That’s not—”

Alistair sped up. “Oh it is.”

The desolate beauty of Ostagar became haunting as the deluge made a haze of its bones. It became a field of nightmares as screams and clangs and explosions burst from all directions, yet Mahariel could barely see beyond six feet as she and Alistair ran for the tower. As they raced between the two armored statues that guarded the end of the bridge, two figures darted into their path. Mahariel and Alistair leaped to the side, backs against their own side of the parapet and weapons raised. A guard and a mage faced them, weapons at the ready.

The mage was first to lower his staff. “They’ve taken the tower!”

“You,” yelled the guard as he spotted Alistair. “You’re a Grey Warden, aren’t you? The tower had been taken.”

Lowering his sword, Alistair stepped close to the guard. “What are you talking about, man? Taken how?”

The mage leaned on his staff, panting. The drum of rain on his back looked almost painful. “Darkspawn. Lower chambers. Everywhere.”

“Most of our men our dead,” the guard added.

“There were two Wardens in there.” Mahariel hardly finished her sentence before the guard began shaking his head.

“Them and others caved the tunnels, but plenty already passed through.”

Mahariel frowned up at the front courtyard of the tower, where a fire seemed to burn. She thought she heard shouts and clangs. Fenedhis. Mahariel and Alistair shared a look. They would be fighting after all. 


	5. Trial By Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alistair and Mahariel race to the top of tower to light the beacon; for the first time, they experience the threat of the darkspawn first-hand.

Hunting was precise; each move planned according to the environment, and countered against the movement of the quarry. The tracking and stalking alone took days of this careful one-sided dance, and a step too loud or an unsteady aim or even a simple downwind cost the clan a hearty dinner. Battle was the same, but ten times the pace.

A growl to left, Mahariel dodged right. Footsteps behind, Mahariel ducked, twisting, swept her blades across a darkspawn’s thigh—cut, one, two; slash up, three; stab under the chin, four. One, two. Three four. One, two. Three four. Her feet followed an imaginary circle on the stone floor, moving in time with her arms, which moved in time with the lunging darkspawn. No. She moved faster. She had to. Behind her, the mage she and Alistair had ran into murmured spells under his breath, the wooden staff planted between his feet crackling with violet lights. 

A genlock—dwarf turned darkspawn—roared and launched itself into a run, leading with the rusty blade of its axe. Four feet, three, two. Mahariel threw her weight on her left leg, swung her right foot back, dug it into the floor, threw her weight into the upswing of her left arm. The ironbark blade slashed between the darkspawn’s pauldron and armbrace; the creature’s arm jerked, axe dropping from his shoulders a little. Instead of turning to Mahariel, the darkspawn plowed into its momentum, roaring louder, heading straight for the mage. 

_Fenedhis_. Mahariel flipped the blade in her right hand, cocked her arm to throw it at the darkspawn. But the mage lifted his staff and struck the ground. A violet bolt shot into the charging darkspawn’s chest, arched out from his back, split into two tendrils as it neared a hurlock behind Loghain’s soldier and the genlock he was fighting. The light jumped from one darkspawn to the next, splitting and cracking as it searched for new marks. Meters ahead, before the blasted wooden doors to the next room, in a pool or flickering torchlight, Alistair bashed his shield against a genlock’s head then kicked a hurlock into the stragglers Mahariel and the soldier faced; one of the arms of the lighting bolts streaked toward the hurlock and caught it in the chest.

In the middle of the flashing web of electricity, the mage opened his sparking eyes. He lifted his staff again, lips forming the last words of a spell. His staff struck stone and the violet lights flashed and writhed around the gurgling convulsing darkspawn. Smoke sizzled where it touched their bruise-like skin and brought with it the sharp stench of charred flesh. Goosebumps ran up Mahariel’s arms as the violet lights that circled her waist—to capture the genlock who had charged and a hurlock who Mahariel had not noticed come up behind her—hissed with heat and electricity. Along with the hiss and spit of energy, the distant ringing at the back of Mahariel’s head crept forward; between her ears then to her forehead then to the bridge of her nose. Mahariel shut her eyes and she almost felt them throb as she saw the echoes of the violet light flashing under her eyelids. Then those echoes blended with a memory, of an elvhen mage whose blood poured from his mouth and into Mahariel’s hands. 

_ Crack! _

Then a _ pop! _ as the ringing stopped. The lightning web broke like cut spider web, winking once before leaving the fifth floor of the Tower of Ishal in cold stillness. Iron clanged to stone as all the darkspawn in the room dropped to the floor; with only the two torches that the soldier and Alistair had dropped before the ambush, the darkspawn looked like jagged lumps on the ground, even to Mahariel’s eyes. Burnt to blackness or simply silhouettes? Mahariel hoped for the former. She studied the figures, watching for movement as she counted. Twenty one darkspawn, three of which had been dead before the arrival of Mahariel’s group. Among the bulky deformed lumps were smaller ones, revealed by the torchlight through a slit of silver or a slash of steel. A _ whoosh _ started at the far end of the room, then another along the right wall as Alistair and the soldier resumed their interrupted work of lighting the torches and braziers around the circular room. Whatever it was used in the past, any furniture had been either cleared out or rotted long ago. The only indications of visits were the swipe of a dustless pathway connecting the entrance to the ruined door, along with several imprints of boots that lead toward the windows.

The bodies on the floor seemed fewer than Mahariel had felt during the fight. Almost thirty humans, most of them guards in full armor, two robed mages. Mahariel tried not to wriggle her toes, nor did she try to look at the warm wet thing draped over her left foot. Instead, she sheathed her blades and jogged to the mage. Unfortunately, the wet thing didn’t dislodge itself from her skin.

The mage was bent over, palms on his knees, backside almost pressed to the fallen candelabra they had weaved through to get into the room. A candelabra that was supposed to be mounted in the middle of room, judging from the snapped chain dangling at the center of the slightly domed ceiling. A tingle ran down Mahariel spine, though she could not say exactly why. Perhaps it was the adrenaline leaving her, or maybe it was the corpses surrounding her.

The mage took deep breaths then pushed it through pursed lips; Mahariel took a breath herself, rubbing the sore spot on her right shoulder. Just how big was the chunk of bridge that had struck her?

“Nicely done,” Mahariel said, clapping the mage on the back. If she only had her father’s powers...

“Thank you,” the mage said. One hand dug into a pocket hidden between the folds of his robes and came away with a cube wrapped in thin cloth. 

“Cake,” Loghain’s soldier whispered as he unbuckled his helm to wipe the dripping sweat from his heavy brow. “You have cake in your pocket?”

The mage gestured at his body, cheeks puffed with half the light brown treat on his palm.

“Sugar for his mana,” Mahariel explained, which had Alistair’s head snapping away from the narrow window he was leaning out on.

“There is no one for us to help here, and I only sense one more darkspawn up there,” Alistair said, pointing his dripping blade at the splintered door at the far end of the room. “The signal hasn’t been called, but we should get a move on.”

Loghain’s soldier nodded, donned his helmet once again. “Maker, let it be the last of them.”

Unlikely. But the stiffness in Mahariel’s arms, the soreness of her legs, the cuts and burns on her feet, and the feverish bruise on her right shoulder shared the sentiment. Swallowing a sigh, Mahariel followed Alistair and the soldier across the wreckage of the room, the mage ambled behind them, the last of his food evident only in the crumbs on his robes. Alistair stopped them by the ruined door and quickly peeked into the room; the flickering light changed his face too quickly for Mahariel to read his expressions properly.

“How many of your men were up here?” Alistair asked the soldier, shifting to his left and blocking the way by doing so.

Mahariel tilted her head; aside from their own voices and breathing, the wind hummed softly high over their heads, tumbling among the shadows in the ceiling. The rush of water merely trickled down the awnings of ten windows, only a hint of the rainstorm that soaked them—still soaked them—during their run to the tower.

The soldier’s hand tightened on his sword. “Since the Teyrn ordered lookouts, none. He sent for four scouts hours ago, though, just enough to keep watch and light the beacon if needed.”

Four trained scouts would hardly make a noise. But what of the one darkspawn Alistair had sensed?

“We must be careful. More than before,” Alistair said. His eyes found Mahariel. “I think we have a _ big _ problem here.”

Alistair took one of the torches from a sconce and stepped into the next room. The soldier took two steps in and stumbled, cursing. The string of words that Mahariel didn’t quite understand cut off just as she stepped into what looked to be an armory. Though it wasn’t the racks of spears or the lines of axes on the walls that made the soldier clench his jaw. He was looking down, at what he stumbled on: a right arm, ripped at the elbow. 

“Oh Maker,” the mage gasped behind Mahariel. He turned away, only to come face-to-face with a bloody point of a spear protruding from the side of a headless soldier. The mage bent over, heaving the cake he just finished at the corpse’s feet. 

Mahariel stared at the white bits of bone that stuck out through the mess of flesh and blood and fabric; how little the white looked amid the red. So much red. Which came first, the impaling or the biting of the head? And why? What would do such a thing? A touch on her elbow made Mahariel look away, into Alistair’s pallid face.

“What do you know about ogres?” he asked.

Mahariel frowned up at him. “None.”

Alistair gestured for Loghain’s soldier and the mage to move closer. “I’ve never actually fought one, but I’ve learned enough from Duncan to know that this—” he gestured around the bodies and pieces of bodies scattered around the room, which the mage pointedly did not look at “—this is what ogres can do.”

Mahariel looked over her shoulder again at the impaled soldier. Thick red blood still trickled down a breastplate whose emblem was no longer visible; most likely the sigil for Gwaren, or perhaps the royal Ferelden lions. The creature that did _ that _ was, according to Alistair’s Warden senses, in the next room, and they were supposed to kill it. Mahariel scanned the body parts. How many people would they make whole? 

“Are you sure it is an ogre?” Mahariel nodded her chin at the far end of the room, where six steps led up to a closed door. It was too quiet to hold a beast inside.

Alistair rolled his shoulders. “Wardens sense darkspawn but we can’t tell what kind it is. Just as they can’t tell Wardens apart from their fellow darkspawn. All I know for sure is that there is a source of taint right above us.”

“Right,” Loghain’s soldier said, eyes on the vaulted ceiling, as if he could see the ogre waiting for them there. He leaned his sword against a rack of unstrung bows, pulled a workbench from the middle of the room and dragged it around the fallen soldiers, then pushed it against the wall where battleaxes were hung. “How big are the bastards?”

Alistair raised his eyebrows at the man. “One and a half times taller than an adult human, at least. Three shoulders wide.”

“At least, right?”

“Of course. No _ proper _ ogre is less than three shoulders wide.”

Mahariel and the soldier glanced at Alistair at the same time. There really was no simple straight answer from the man. And at a time like this. “You are truly strange.”

Alistair gave a lopsided smile and shrugged. 

“Right.” The soldier scanned the rows of heavy gleaming weapons, then his hands closed around a double-bladed axe with a long haft. “I’d imagine there’s quite the muscle on them.”

Had the room not been filled with rather fresh torn corpses, Mahariel would have taken a deep long breath. As it were, she settled with pressing the heels of her hands into her eyes. “We have to be fast.” And she was the fastest among them.

“I’ll try to slow the creature down,” said the mage, still pale, but he stood tall.

“Try.” Mahariel turned to him. “But your priority must be the beacon. If Alistair and I are occupied, and we will be, you need to light that beacon.”

The mage blinked at her, then at Alistair. “I understand.”

Loghain’s soldier huffed as he gave his new weapon a swing. “Shall we see if the bastard is still up there?”

Mahariel’s eyes snapped to him. His sudden energy roiled in her stomach. Since they had entered the tower, he had been cautious of his movements, only exerting the exact force needed to conserve his strength—as any hunter or warrior should. Now, so close to the last floor, he was ready to spend it all. 

Was she? No. She never will be. Not that she had a choice.

The soldier led the group to the six steps that led to the door. As he touched the dark wood, a mellow blue light rippled from his palm. The waves of light tingled in Mahariel’s mind, and she dropped her eyes to Alistair’s boots before the image dug up more memories—memories of elvhen ruins and magic mirrors. 

“Sealed,” the mage said.

Mahariel and Alistair stepped off the stairs to let him through. Mahariel glanced at the carnage on the floor, looking for colored robes or wooden staves and found none. Or at least she could distinguish none. Who could have raised the magical barrier? As the mage pressed both hands to the door, his staff leaning against his shoulder and his lips moving in a soft incantation, Mahariel scanned the rack of shortbows. The wood felt smooth under her fingertips, sturdy, yet pliable. She plucked the one at the farthest end, unvarnished and plain, unlike the others. It’s arms curled and ended in a delicate swirl, putting Mahariel’s mind on master Ilen’s crafts. But enough of that. Mahariel strung the bow, unhooked a quiver from a pin on the wall, and filled it with two dozen arrows—most of which were barbed. Mahariel paused as she examined the arrowheads, then she fished the circular container from the pouch at her hip. With steady hands, she unscrewed the lid, ducked down to rip the cleanest cloth she could find on one of the corpses, then swabbed the fabric on the thick green surface of the cream. 

_ Thud!_

Mahariel glanced at the ceiling. Bits of dust fell as the entire room thumped again. Then silence.

“Somebody woke up on the wrong side of the bed,” Alistair muttered. His eyes were on the still-shut door, mouth screwed in a pout. “You’d think we’d want to keep that door sealed.”

The mage took his hands off the door. “Too late for that, now, I’m afraid.”

The door didn’t swing open with a creak, nor did a heavy fog roll out from under it. It simply stood there, silent and unmoving as before. But Mahariel knew that if they were to put a hand on its handle, it would turn smoothly, easily. 

“By your lead, Wardens?” Loghain’s soldier asked, lifting his new axe.

Alistair caught Mahariel’s eyes, eyebrows raised in the same question.

Mahariel gathered the barbed arrows she found, wiped their heads with the cloth to let the iron bathe in poison. She arranged the coated arrows in the quiver, separated from the others, dropped the container back into her pouch, then joined the three men waiting for her to open the door.

“Speed over force,” Mahariel reminded them. Then she grabbed the iron bolt on the door, and pulled.

Cold, sticky sweet air greeted them in silence. The first six steps led up to darkness, without even a hint of light for Mahariel to make out a silhouette. 

“The stairs curve,” Loghain’s soldier said. 

Mahariel looked over her shoulder at him, about to suggest he took the lead since he was the most familiar with the tower, when she realized she didn’t know his name. Nor the mage’s name. They had survived how many floors together, and now there they were, walking into an ogre’s cage, possibly to die together. Instead of asking for introductions, Mahariel asked for a torch. The greasy flame sputtered, so that at least told Mahariel that they could expect an open space at the very top, hopefully enough open space to dodge and weave around the ogre. Or maybe the gust was simply the ogre’s breathing.

“Alistair, how smart are these creatures?”

From directly behind her, Alistair hummed. “As smart as the rest of the horde, which means not too smart.”

“They were smart enough to sneak into the tower,” Loghain’s soldier said.

Alistair glanced over his shoulder at the man. “If you ask me, that was the archdemon’s influence. I’m not saying darkspawn are not capable of thought, they make their weapons, after all, crude as they are. But if there are some who can be called smart, it’s emissaries.”

Mahariel stopped, one foot up on the next step. “The darkspawn mages.”

“You mean the little ones in the ground floor?” the human mage asked.

“Yes, those are the genlock emissaries, little ones who burned down the entire courtyard,” Alistair drawled. “Though, as I already told Mahariel, they aren’t exactly mages. Their magic is powered by the taint, the Wardens say.”

Mahariel continued the climb, one hand on the smooth curve of the wall, the other holding the torch forward. If they managed to slay three genlock emissaries, surely it was possible for them to defeat a sleeping ogre. The blisters on Mahariel’s feet flared as she stepped on unpolished surface, as if reminding her the cost of facing an emissary. If only the mage specialized in healing magic; as it were he had done the best he could to heal all four of them. But even that would slow Mahariel down, and if she were not fast enough...

The blackness of the narrow stairwell turned to blue and Mahariel doused the torch, lest the light drew the ogre’s attention. Stepping on the balls of her feet, Mahariel emerged at the edge of the circular room. Six windows, wider than those in the lower floors, featured dark blue skies that flashed white when silent lighting rolled. Across the room, a hearth lay cold and waiting between windows that looked out into the gully, where spots of fire danced amid a dark writhing mass of two armies. This high up, Mahariel could hardly tell which was darkspawn and which were humans. The creature in the tower with them, however, was clearly darkspawn. Before the hearth, a giant horned ogre squatted.

Mahariel drew her bow, eyes fleeting once to Alistair and the others. She pointed at herself and Loghain’s soldier, then to the left windows; she pointed at the mage and Alistair, and ordered them to the right. The two pairs sidestepped along the circumference of the room, a mirror of each other; breath slow and steady, feet soft and sure. What had Alistair said? Almost twice the height of man, and its width three abreast. The slumbering ogre was indeed almost two times Alistair’s height, which was already considerable, and the creature’s legs were still folded underneath its bulky torso. As Mahariel reached the first of the windows, the light from outside hit the ogre at an angle that molded the muscles on the creature’s back into boulders and jagged cliffs. It’s twisted horns, bent upwards and as long as Mahariel’s blades, cast gnarled shadows on the floor, which the mage tiptoed around, as if stepping on it might wake up the beast. For all they knew, it just might. 

Mahariel and the others passed the second window, which put them at the ogre’s flanks. Mahariel paused, caught Alistair’s eyes across the room. He nodded, stepped in front of the mage with his shield and sword raised. Next to Mahariel, Loghain’s soldier pushed air through pursed lips, his eyes bored into the spiked head of the ogre. Mahariel nudged him, taking his attention lest the weight of his intent wake the creature. 

“Calm,” she mouthed at him, to which he frowned.

Loghain’s soldier jutted his chin at Mahariel’s bow, then stepped in front and to the right of Mahariel. He gestured at the bow again.

Mahariel raised a hand to catch the mage’s eye, and when she had it, she drew the paralysis glyph in the air. The mage tilted his head, and Mahariel was about to make a strangling gesture toward the ogre when the mage’s mouth opened in an ‘o’. He aimed his staff at the ogre then nodded at Mahariel. She made a note to learn human signals, were she to survive the night.

Taking a slow breath, Mahariel raised her bow, arrow aimed at the ogre’s left eye. Should they try to kill it now? Or should they wait silently for the signal and light the beacon first? The beacon was their priority, after all. But what if the ogre woke before the signal was called?

A muted orange light circled the ogres feet. Mahariel glanced at the floor long enough to see the lines of light forming the circles of the paralysis glyph. Then a red flare burst outside, followed by a long trembling moan of a horn. Alistair’s head snapped toward the window next to him, the ogre’s eyes popped open, squinted, then swiveled right at Mahariel.

The ogre’s chest swelled as it took a breath through serrated teeth; Mahariel took a breath with it. Its white filmy eyes were rather small under its bunched brow, but it was all Mahariel could see. The ogre roared, spittle clinging to six-in-fangs. The ground shook under Mahariel's feet and dust rained from the ceiling to her shoulders. Mahariel exhaled and let go of her arrow. Then she ran.

Another roar rumbled throughout the stone room, followed by the _ boom boom boom _ that only a giant fist could make. Mahariel turned back, a second arrow nocked. The floor was cracked between the ogre’s feet, dust and pebbles clouding around its ankles. Three feet to the right, Loghain’s soldier knelt, huffing and cursing, but otherwise uninjured. Alistair ran to him and pulled the soldier to his feet. The ogre’s head swiveled to the movement, maw opening in another growl. Before it could take a step, Mahariel released her arrow. It landed lower than the target, on the ogre’s thick neck. Its remaining eye snapped on Mahariel, more angry than in pain. The ogre lowered its head, then ran. 

Mahariel knew she should wait before she dodged, but the sight of two thick twisted horns surrounded by bone spikes hurtling toward her with unexpected speed whipped Mahariel into running three feet too early. The creature managed to follow Mahariel’s turn as she ran toward Alistair and Loghain’s soldier, who had their weapons ready. Behind them, the mage crouched by the hearth, a ball of fire between his palm. The mage dropped the fire into the tinder just as the ogre screeched. 

With the hearth blazing and the room filled with flickering orange light, the ogre seemed at once less dreadful yet more repulsive at the same time. A thick line of black blood shone down its closed left eye, a deep gash trickled on its inner left thigh, and blood pooled around its right foot, which the ogre gingerly put its weight on. Like all other darkspawn, its skin was dark purple, though the ogre’s was thick as hardened leather, stretched tightly over bulging muscles. 

Mahariel turned to the mage. “Can you do ice magic?” She pointed at the ground, then at the window behind the ogre.

The mage’s eyes, wide and glistening, flicked to the ogre. “Run!”

Mahariel bolted left, back to where she started. Three thuds shook the room, shattering the tiled floor even more. A shard jutted from the first crack the ogre had made. Mahariel pulled on the mage’s robes before he tripped on it. A human shriek from behind froze Mahariel and the mage. One of the ogre’s fists was closed around a wriggling figure.

“Alistair!” Mahariel ran toward the ogre just as orange light flared around its feet. The spell slowed down it’s movements, but Mahariel saw its fingers trembling in the effort to squeeze. Mahariel aimed an arrow at the ogre’s wrist, at the tendon close to the thumb. A flinch and a grunt. Mahariel aimed once more, the second arrow joining the first. The ogre’s fist snapped open, and the figure tumbled to the floor with a clang. _Fenedhis_.

Mahariel ran. The running seemed endless and her thighs and calves began their protests, but still she ran. She found the ogre’s captive half buried in the cracked pieces of the floor, unmoving, Gwaren’s sigil bloodied and bent on his chest. Mahariel sighed; half relief, half regret.

The ogre roared. Mahariel aimed her bow up and found Alistair standing at the top of the ogre’s head. He clung to one of its horns, shield gone, right arm bloodied to the elbow.

“A little help,” he called.

Mahariel sent the arrow under the ogre’s chin, forcing a gurgle past the creature’s gritted teeth. It’s eye turned down to Mahariel; filmy and blank as it were, Mahariel thought she felt hatred and wrath in the look. There was also numbness, which she cannot place. 

A tingle skittered up Mahariel’s spine, and her breath clouded as she gasped. A crisp crack echoed from somewhere behind the ogre as goosebumps rose in Mahariel’s arms at the sudden drop in temperature. 

“Get down from there, Warden,” the mage called out to Alistair. Then he pulled back his staff, as if preparing to fling something at the ogre.

The ogre raised its arms again, either to reach for Alistair or to slam its fists on the floor again. If it was the latter, Mahariel would be squashed. But the creature's arms were slow, heavy, one hand barely able to close, so Mahariel raised her bow. The arrow flew straight to the ogre’s right eye. It howled, threw its head back, fists covering its face. Unbalanced by its enormous head, the ogre stumbled a step back with its injured right foot. It screamed again, then fell to one knee. 

“Nice aim,” Alistair shouted. He had somehow climbed the ogre’s right horn, a foot braced in the niche of a spike that swooped upward. He swung his body back, jerking the ogre’s head with him. “Now if you can knock it to its back, that would be great!”

By the Creators. 

The ogre, guided by its ears, raised its left hand, seemingly to reach behind its neck. Mahariel ran in front of the ogre, nocking another arrow. 

“Aim for its forehead!” she ordered the mage and released the arrow. The ogre flinched, though not enough to tip its head back.

“You really need to get down from there, Warden,” the mage warned just as he stabbed his staff in the air.

A flash of green. A boulder burst from the staff’s head and cracked between the ogre’s eyes. The speed and force of it snapped his head up. Alistair jumped to the tip of its horn. The momentum of his body as he swung to the floor tilted the ogre faster sideways. It landed with a boom and a crack of ice. The ogre groaned, rolled on its left side in an attempt to stand. But the mage hurled another boulder at its face. Then another. The ogre slid on the ice path the mage had created, and with every hit of the mage’s boulder and Alistair’s shield, it was pushed closer to the window, just to the right of the burning hearth. 

“Hit it harder!” Mahariel ordered.

The mage ran forward, stopped a foot from the groaning ogre. “Stand back.”

Mahariel and Alistair were only able to take three steps when a blast struck Mahariel's stomach. She dropped to her knees even as stone grated and crumbled. The whole tower seemed to moan in pain just as she did. Hands pulled on her shoulder, leaning her against a heaving chest.

“Breathe slower,” Alistair said, voice merely a rumble against Mahariel’s back amid the crashing of stone. 

“Ogre?” The very flesh in her body seemed to tremble.

“Out the window. Along with my sword.”

Mahariel sucked in air through her teeth. When the spinning stopped, her eyes landed on the blasted hole where the window once sat. The mage knelt before the open air, robes fluttering in the high wind. His shoulders were shaking, and Mahariel was about to reassure him that the fight was over, when he threw his head back and laughed.

“Oh!” he cried, looking at his hands. “I never knew! If only I knew earlier.” He smacked the floor with his palms and pushed to his feet. Tears cleaned a track down his dusty cheeks. “Wardens! I...Are you alright?”

With Alistair’s hand on Mahariel’s elbow, they rose to their feet and limped toward the mage. Well, Mahariel limped; Alistair gingerly walked.

“As right as can be,” Alistair said, clapping the mage on the shoulder. “Am I even gladder to have you with us.”

Mahariel sagged to the ruined floor, arms shaking as they tried to keep her upright; Alistair followed her down, hands steady on her shoulders, though he didn't try to pull her to her feet again. The beacon’s fire revealed what the silence tried to hide. Most of the floor sparkled in a sheen of smooth ice, while a third was cracked and powdered. The same powder covered the mage’s and Alistair’s faces and clothes, and hers too, no doubt. There was no blood on the mage, though Mahariel feared his own blood flow had stopped, for his face was grey. Alistair, on the other hand was half covered in red. Dark blood clung from his right shoulder, to the tips of his fingers, to his outer thigh. Mahariel could see no fatal cuts or wounds amid the mess, but she noted that Alistair’s right hand didn’t move. 

“It’s not my blood,” Alistair said, which raised Mahariel’s attention to his watchful eyes. “Well, some of it is. And I did lose my most favouritest sword.”

“Better find yourself a new one.” For Mahariel knew the battle was hardly finished. 

Alistair’s eyes cast around the room, either in search for a weapon or feeling for darkspawn. They stopped close to the middle of the ruined room, at the broken tiles where Loghain’s soldier rested.

“Maker guide his soul,” Alistair whispered.

The mage began to move toward the soldier’s body when a bang echoed from the stairs. Mahariel clambered to her feet. She offered one of her blades to Alistair, who shook his head.

“Can’t hold it, I’m afraid,” he admitted in a whisper, raising his shield. “Besides, a shield is better in an ambush.”

Mahariel offered the blade to the mage, who also shook his head. “I don’t know how to use that.”

Mahariel sheathed her sword with a sigh, then gripped her bow and arrow tighter.

“How is your mana?” she asked the mage, though from the pallor of his face, she knew the unfortunate answer.

The mage turned to her, lips open around a word, then a bolt struck him in the chest. His back hit the floor, eyes rolling to the ceiling. Mahariel blindly loosed an arrow, didn’t bother to check where it landed as she pulled another from her quiver. Alistair swept in front of her, shield raised. A _thunk_ hit the shield, shoved them back a step. With an arm over her head, Alistair pulled them both into a crouch. Behind them, the wind pushed at Mahariel’s back and pulled at her hair. 

Another thunk. The point of an arrow glinted just above Alistair’s clenched fist.

“How many?”

“Just four.” Alistair’s breath fanned the hair stuck to her temple. “But those two with the crossbows are the real problem.”

Mahariel steadied her hands on the bow and arrow. “Where?”

Alistair’s eyes roamed her face, a frown creasing his brow further. Then he lifted his head for a second, ducked back. “One by the stairs, the other moving to the right. The other two are closing in.”

Mahariel nodded, right ear perked at the twangs and thuds of arrows. Thud, thud, creak, thud, thud. Thud, thud, Mahariel rose to her knees, arrow aimed to the right. A hurlock stood just past the first window, one hand loading an arrow into its crossbow. Mahariel exhaled, and her arrow pierced through the hurlock’s right eye. Mahariel was about to duck when a genlock rasped. To the left. It raised it’s longsword at Alistair’s head. Alistair slammed his shield against its middle, shoving it back. Mahariel trained her arrow at the hurlock and—

Her right shoulder jerked, then burned. The arrow glanced the genlock’s cheek as Mahariel’s right arm fell limp at her side. Alistair yelled her name, rising from his knees, shield arm stretched to her. Pain shot up her side, cut off her breath so her mouth fell open in a voiceless gasp. Warmth coated Mahariel’s stomach and hip, and no matter how much she tried, her throat refused to suck air into her lungs. Cold speared through her back, and she didn’t know if it was due to the stone floor or the rapid blood loss. 

Alistair’s face scrunched over her. Stay with me, his lips seemed to say, though Mahariel hardly heard his voice over the rush in her ears. A rush like a strong wind. Then a decaying face loomed over Alistair’s shoulder, lipless grin peeled over sharp jagged teeth. Mahariel kicked Alistair in the ribs, sent him tumbling into the legs of the hurlock. She heard Alistair’s sharp curse, felt heavy blows vibrate on the floor. From the corner of her eyes, she saw the remaining hurlock with a crossbow take aim at Alistair.

“Shield!” Mahariel said, though she didn’t know if her voice reached Alistair. She didn’t even know if she had indeed said the word. The rushing in her ears filled her whole mind even as the tower faded from her sight. 


	6. A Witch of the Wilds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the aftermath of the Battle at Ostagar, Alistair finds himself alone. Meanwhile, Morrigan is sent to an unexpected errand.

Alistair opened his eyes to golden orange sunset filtered in diamonds through thick green leaves, while a soft crackle of fire tickled his left ear. There was no tainted dragon chasing him through the bones of the dead, no screaming awake, no lack of breath. He wasn’t even sweating. Something was terribly wrong. 

Alistair moved to throw the heavy blanket off him, froze as his left arm strained against thick gauze that wrapped his whole forearm and looped behind his neck. Broken. Like the buckles of his kite shield. Memories raced to the front of Alistair’s mind, pulsing behind his eyes with each image: Mahariel’s rough warning, a hurlock’s crossbow aimed right at Alistair, his left arm slowly rising with the shield, the other hurlock’s raised double sword, Alistair turning last minute to block the blade.

Alistair’s hand flew to his right thigh, patting for a band of gauze. He only felt the smooth thick leather of his pants. Shouldn’t he have a crossbow bolt sticking out of his leg? Or at the very least a tear in his pants? Then his fumbling stopped; he can move his right hand. He could move the fingers of his right hand! Alistair clenched and unclenched his fingers, joints popping yet fully functional. Frown deepening with every crack of his joints, he rolled on his right side—his less painful side—and moaned his way into a sitting position. His legs, stiff as they were, didn’t break as Alistair folded them in front of him, so that was one good thing the morning gave him. Actually, that was the second good thing; the first was waking up at all. 

As Alistair’s eyes fell on the calm pond in front of him, his stomach sank an inch. He looked over his shoulder at the small fire waving in the middle of three empty chairs and his stomach sank another two inches. He knew those hard, moss-covered chairs. He knew the squat hut with a single burning chimney behind those empty chairs. And as Alistair’s eyes scanned the tiny and very empty front courtyard, his ears strained in the silence, his stomach dropped to the ground with a wet plop. Biting down on a curse, Alistair rose to his shaky knees, then to his sore bare feet. He limped toward the closed door of the hut, careful not to step on his fallen stomach. Before his hand could wrap around the iron handle, the door jerked inward with a creak. Flemeth’s lined, smiling face filled the gap between door and jamb.

Where is Mahariel? Where’s my shirt? What happened? His mouth was ready to ask, but Flemeth was faster.

“Ah! Awake at last, are you?” the Witch of the Wilds said. “Well then, come on in, I am sure you are eager to see your fellow Warden.”

Alistair gasped. “She’s really here? She’s alright? What about the others? Ostagar?”

Felemeth waved a hand, turned, then weaved around piles of books crookedly stacked in the middle of the floor. Alistair followed, shoulders hunched and head bent to avoid the vines that hung from the ceiling as well as the glass jars tangled among their fuzzy leaves. More of the glass jars lined the shelves of four narrow cabinets that fit snugly along the back wall, where they flanked a similarly narrow doorway. The jars and cabinets, and the room in general, were less dusty and mossy and spider-webby than Alistair expected. In fact, the house seemed to be cleaned regularly enough for him to see the items inside the jars; like the white floating thing in the third highest shelf of the second cabinet from the left. Alistair paused, squinting in the evening light as the object bobbed closer. A set of perfectly lined teeth grinned from behind the glass. Alistair stepped away quietly, not looking back as he hurried after Flemeth.

It turned out that the Witch of the Wilds’ hut consisted of only two rooms; the first room being the larger, and more interesting, of the two—to house the odd and possibly dangerous books and items Flemeth collected. The other room was neater, despite being half the size, and much brighter due to a flickering lamp that dangled from the ceiling, just above the doorway. A clothing trunk was pushed against the left wall, above which three rows of wooden shelves supported hand-bound leather books. The small table next to the trunk was dusted with chalk drawings of glyphs and runes, partially covered and erased by pieces of brown paper scribbled with small black letters. A window or a door somewhere in the back let some light in, though the purple and black floral curtain that separated the back half area left the room mostly at the grace of the single lamp. 

Alistair slowed his feet as his nose tingled at the mixture of sweet and pungent herbs. He stopped just as his knuckles brushed the thick fabric of the curtain. What had happened in the tower? After the hurlock buried its sword in Alistair’s shield and ripped it out of his arm, pain shot up his right leg and hip—from the barbed crossbow bolt. Then the hurlock raised its sword again, shrieking in triumph. Alistair remembered the prayers he said; well, not the words, but the feelings: Regret for failing to light the beacon on time, guilt for being unable to help Duncan more in the battle, helplessness for not protecting Mahariel and the others. But after that one eternal second of silent prayer? Nothing. Not even a hint, as if his memories were erased. Alistair ran his thumb again over where the ghastly crossbow wound should be. 

“Well?” Flemeth’s muffled voice rasped from behind the curtain. “Are you planning to simply stand there?”

Frowning, Alistair ducked behind the curtain. He was greeted by an open window that looked out into a bricked niche, where pots and pans hung from hooks drilled into the stone. Under them, a low, open cabinet displayed clay jugs and bowls—some sealed with cloth, some with matching clay lids. Farther out, Alistair caught bubbling and the _ tak tak tak _ of knife against chopping board. To the right of the window, a backdoor was shut, blocked by a long, narrow table. Its smoothed surface was lined with two basins, one filled with clear water, the other half full with rust-coloured water. From the rim of the second basin hung a red washcloth; red from dye or red from stains, Alistair did not want to know. Though he soon knew, as he turned around and his eyes finally landed on the small wooden bed. 

Mahariel lay on her back, pallid skin stark against her dark hair and the brown sheets that covered her up to the shoulders. Red-stained gauze peeked from her right shoulder with each shallow inhale she took through cracked parted lips. Sweat beaded on her forehead, neck, and under her eyes, which were dark as bruises.

Alistair sank on the bed, choked by the smell of creams and swabs and whatever else Flemeth used to treat Mahariel. Questions clamoured in his chest, banged on his ribcage and crowded his lungs. Breathe, Alistair reminded himself. Breathe. One foot in front of the other, just like always. One question at a time. 

“Will you continue to look after her? I need to go back.”

A snort snapped Alistair’s eyes back to Flemeth, who had a wrinkled hand on Mahariel’s brow. “I did not trouble myself with your rescue just to leave you half well. No, I will see to your health, but you will not be going anywhere. Not yet.”

Not yet? Were they prisoners then? Alistair had the urge to slap Flemeth’s hand away from Mahariel. Instead, he dug his right hand under his thigh, lest it do things like slap a suspicious and powerful witch’s hand to keep her away from his unconscious friend. “And I’m suppose to sit here? While Duncan and the others—”

“Your Duncan is gone.” Flemeth drew her hand back, then straightened to her full height. She tilted her head at Alistair, voice lowered. “As is your order. Unfortunate as it is, what I say is true; the battle was lost, young man.”

Alistair shot to his feet, then stopped. What exactly did he intend to do, yell at Flemeth to say otherwise? His eyes roved the room for his belt-bag and armor, landed on a leather strap that peeked from under the bed. Alistair tugged on it, sighing when his hand touched the letters tucked inside. “Where’s my armor?”

Flemeth stood still, hands clasped in front of her, yellow eyes following Alistair’s every move. “Outside. Though I doubt you will be donning it with just one arm.”

Alistair grunted, grabbed his belt, and stormed out of the hut. The door banged behind him and Alistair wanted to punch it so much that his whole body trembled. His breath rattled past his lips. His neck, ears, and cheeks burned with the rush of his blood. He wanted his sword in hand and hack his way back to Ostagar, back to Duncan and the Wardens, he wanted his shield on his arm to ram every darkspawn in their way, to keep open a path to safety. Teeth gritted around a curse, Alistair threw his belt at one of the chairs in Flemeth’s yard, toppling it over its side. As he marched past the other two chairs, he noticed a dark bundle at the feet of the one farthest from where he woke up. The hair in his arms prickled as he realized that that was the chair he had sat on the first time he had met Flemeth.

Groaning as he knelt, Alistair yanked the dark green fabric. There, his blue and grey tunic draped over the pieces of his armour, crusted with blood that had long turned brown. With cold fingers, Alistair brushed the scaled tunic aside and found his chestplate, its griffon emblem scratched through by three parallel lines. Claw marks. If it weren’t for that ogre, they would have immediately seen the signal and they would have lit the beacon on time and they would have left the tower earlier and joined the battle and, and, and. And they would have died.

Alistair saw himself pick up the chestplate and fling it far into the pond. He saw himself kick the armor pieces with all his remaining strength, scattering them one by one into the forest. But he didn’t do any of it. He might have hated the years he spent with the Templars, but he learned enough discipline to know that acting on frustration and anger would not help anything. A lesson that he wished he’d known sooner. But he knew that now. He also knew that Flemeth was right; he can’t put on his armor with only one working arm, much less go back to Ostagar. Maker, he didn’t even have a sword—unless Flemeth had one hidden somewhere in her hut. No, no matter how much Alistair wanted to find Duncan and the Wardens, logic and plain good sense told him he shouldn’t leave. Not until he was fully healed. Not until he knew Mahariel would be okay.

Alistair strode to where water met soil. He took a deep breath, let it out through pursed lips, then sank his bare foot into the frigid pond. The muscles in his legs jumped and flinched, begging him to get out, to return to the fire. But Alistair waded deeper until the water lapped at his navel. Then with another deep breath, he knelt. Bubbles frothed from Alistair’s mouth as cold water pushed his knees further into the muddy floor of the pond. Alistair grabbed at the long weeds that swayed in the water, wrapped them around his fingers as he shut his eyes. In the dark, he felt his heart beat in his ears, steady at first. Then faster. _Thu-thump. Thu-thump._ _Thu-thump, thu-thump, thu-thump._

When his skin couldn’t feel the coldness of the water, Alistair unlocked his jaw and screamed. He screamed until his lungs ached, until his ears rang, until his feet moved on their own as they pushed Alistair up. Up and out of the water. Air wheezed into Alistair’s lungs even as he coughed and spluttered. He chuckled once, teeth clacking as he shivered. He may freeze to death later, but least his head felt less cluttered. He waded back to Flemeth’s front yard, hand wringing water from his hair. He was about to feed more wood to the fire when a _ click _ came from the hut’s door. Flemeth squinted down her nose at Alistair, a thick towel draped over her arms.

“My, my. Had I known you’d take a dip, I wouldn’t have changed your bandages this morning.” Clicking her tongue, Flemeth sank into the middle chair and offered the towel. 

Alistair took it and draped the heavy fabric around his shoulders, trying not to think about what Flemeth could or could not possibly know. He didn’t willingly take a bath in a cold swamp pond just to be confused and distracted again.

“Thank you,” he sighed. “For the blanket, and for bringing us here. But I do have to ask, how_ did _ we get here?”

Flemeth folded her hands on her lap. “Why, I rescued you, of course.”

Despite the echoes of Mahariel's voice in his head that reminded him about the _ Asha’bellanar, _about her mysterious magic, Alistair couldn’t help the pointed eyebrow raise he sent the old woman’s way. “Of course, why shouldn’t I have expected the Witch of the Wilds to come to our rescue. We’re all great friends after all.”

Flemeth didn't say anything—not a sigh or a chuckle or even a lecture on how his glibness did him no good. Alistair thought she’d fallen asleep—as old people tended to do, but when he looked up, the witch’s yellow eyes were bright and steady and studying him. 

“You have yet to start a long journey. You and your fellow Warden.” Flemeth tilted her head and propped her chin on her palm. “You understand this now, do you not?”

With the battle at Ostagar lost, as Flemeth claimed, and Duncan and the Wardens injured or...worse, Alistair and Mahariel had much to do indeed. 

As the towel grew damper with each swipe on his body, Alistair picked up the chair he had toppled earlier and hang the towel on its back. Then he grabbed the blanket he had woken up in, sat by the fire, and tightened the blanket around his shoulders to brace himself against the answers to his questions. “So tell me, Flemeth, did you see what happened at Ostagar?”

“So close to my home, I couldn’t help but watch the tide of battle.” A thin smile spread on the old woman’s face. “What would you like to know?”

* * *

Visitors.

Morrigan would have cringed at the idea, made herself scarce from the hut until she’d forgotten what it was that Flemeth did to her so-called guests. Yet these recent guests were not one of Flemeth’s puppets. Or at the very least, they were of a more valuable kind—important pieces of a puzzle that only the old witch could see. That was the only reason Morrigan could accept as to why her mother had saved two young Grey Wardens among veterans from the overwhelming darkspawn horde. Why not the Warden-Commander? Why not the Fereldan King? Perhaps it was as Flemeth had said: she could not risk flying further than the Tower of Ishal. Or more likely, she believed Morrigan didn’t need to know and thus kept her reasons secret. Whichever the case might be it did not excuse Morrigan from tending to the injured pair. At least one of them had already awoken the evening before and was now capable of cleaning himself. But the other one, the Dalish woman who had, only three days ago, introduced herself as Mahariel, still lay unresponsive on Morrigan’s bed.

The sting of the poultice against the crossbow wound on Mahariel’s right rib cage should have jolted her awake, yet she had merely mumbled something in her people’s language. Clucking her tongue, Morrigan set a washbasin onto the table, hung a cloth on its rim, and placed a hand on the elf’s forehead. She sent a wave of her mana into Mahariel’s mind; the magic didn’t sink deep. It halted suddenly, as if it met a wall. Just as it had yesterday. Morrigan raised an eyebrow. From the brief encounter she had with Mahariel’s party, she had learned that the elf was not a mage. Then what blocked her mind from magic aside from a spell? Was it her elvhen blood?

Clucking her tongue again, Morrigan sat on the edge of her bed and began undoing the bandages around Mahariel’s shoulder, chest, and torso. “If you would just allow my magic into your mind, I could wrench you from your nightmares and we’d both be spared from such unnecessary tasks.”

The Dalish did not answer, of course. Not even a fevered mumble.

As Morrigan began to wipe away the remnants of the poultice, a hum tickled the edge of her hearing. Magic. Rather, a magical item. Her eyes fell to the wooden beads, leather cord, and silver chain around Mahariel’s neck. Morrigan hooked a finger under the necklaces and coaxed the pendants out from under Mahariel’s uninjured left shoulder. An oval wooden pendant was strung among the beaded thread, a crystal vial filled with white liquid was tied to the leather cord, while a red tear-shaped glass hung from the silver chain. Closing her fingers over the amulets, Morrigan released a searching spell. A shock ran through her hand and up her elbow, jerking her fingers open and dropping the amulets on their owner’s chest. 

"A protection spell,” Morrigan said, flexing her fingers. “Very clever.”

With a finger, she nudged the wooden pendant so that the engraved skull of a deer was upright. The sapphires in the figure’s eye sockets twinkled, and Morrigan felt the pulse of magic hidden behind it. Whoever this Mahariel was, she carried secrets. Secrets and trouble. And something Morrigan had not seen in a long while: an unknown.

When the time came to apply a new layer of poultice, Mahariel began wincing and groaning. Morrigan took it as a good sign and applied more of the thick paste on the wounds. As she did, her eyes raised to the pale scar just above where the crossbow bolt had pierced the elf’s right shoulder. It shone under the morning light streaming from the window, the furrowed skin drew shadows that warped around her arm. What had made the scar, she wondered. A scrape from a stag’s antlers? A fall against rough rocks? A mild burn, perhaps? As Morrigan wrapped the new bandages, her eyes were once again caught by the mark between Mahariel’s breasts; that scar was, in no doubt, made by a severe burn. The light red skin told Morrigan it was healed with magic, but not immediately. The three lines, like tracks of water, trailed down her abdomen. Morrigan paused in her bandaging, took the wooden pendant between two fingers, and aligned it with the scar. It was a perfect imprint of the pendant, except for the drip marks.

“I wonder…” Morrigan didn’t finish the thought. Once the Warden was up, she and her companion would march back into Ferelden, never to look back again.

Mahariel woke up that afternoon, groaning and cursing in elvhen. Morrigan shut her book and stood over her, at the end of the bed, arms crossed as she waited for the questions to come. The Dalish had been rather inquisitive when they had first met; and polite. Unlike the humans she had traveled with—a suspicious lot, easily shaken by stories of magic and death.

A mumbled word from the bed made Morrigan lean over, placing herself in line of Mahariel’s sight. Dry lips parted, followed by the rasp of her name.

“Huh,” Morrigan said before she could hold her surprise. “You remember my name.”

Turning on her side, Mahariel cracked an eye open. “Why would I not?” She pushed herself to sit, swaying. “How long?”

And there was the first question, barely comprehensible. “Two days. You were injured, do you not remember?”

A trembling hand touched the bruises on her hip, then the bandages around her right shoulder, and lastly, the one on her side. Mahariel winced, no doubt feeling her broken ribs. The elf frowned, looked around the room. “How did I get here? Where’s Alistair?”

Morrigan slid the book on healing back into its slot in the shelf above her clothing chest. “Mother decided it wise to turn into a giant bird and pluck you from the burning ruins of Ostagar. As for Alistair—your friend, I assume—he suffered more bolts but less severe wounds. He has his silverite armor to thank for that, though he stubbornly says little and prefers to stare blankly at the lake.”

Mahariel moved as if to stand up, only to sink back on the sheets. A hand flew to the blooming red spot on her shoulder and remained there for a few heartbeats. “My clothes and armor? My weapons?”

Morrigan pulled a crate from under the bed, where she had folded the brown tunic and black leggings after Flemeth had instructed her to mend them. Then she reached farther and dragged out the belt bag and weapons belt, along with the two shortswords still attached to it. “I expect you have enough strength to dress yourself. When you are ready, mother wishes to speak with you. I also suggest you ask her to look at that wound again.”

Mahariel looked at her then, eyes now clear of sleep. “Thank you, Morrigan.”

A pause. Then a shrug. Morrigan waved off the sentiment with a hand. “Mother did most of the healing. But, you are welcome, I suppose.”

She turned on her heel and left Mahariel to tend to herself.

Voices drifted all the way to the back of the hut, where a fire sent a plume of smoke higher than the thatched roof. Although that did not mean much, considering that the ceiling was only three feet above Morrigan’s head.

She listened to the talk about the death of the king and his general’s betrayal, the Wardens and their treaties, the slaughter of their order at Ostagar. It was the human’s voice that she heard most clearly, deep and resonating as it was. That, and her mother’s cackle. Rolling her eyes, Morrigan shut the lid of the boiling pot and killed the fire with a clench of her fist.

“And the other wardens?” Mahariel was saying as Morrigan reached the front of the hut. The Dalish, Flemeth, and the male Warden sat around the fire, chatting as though they were old acquaintances.

“Duncan said the Orlesian wardens had been summoned by Cailan. But I expect Loghain has already taken steps to stop them. We must assume they won’t arrive in time,” Alistair replied.

Mahariel cocked her head, looking up at her fellow Grey Warden. “Alistair, do you still have the treaties?”

“The—Maker!” Alistair dove out of his chair, falling on his knees as he grabbed his belt from under a bedroll. When he stood again, facing Flemeth, he held a folded document in his hand. “Duncan told me to hold on to it before…This is it. The Grey Wardens can demand help from dwarves, elves, mages, and other places. They’re obligated to help us during a Blight.”

Morrigan raised an eyebrow at that. The very document that could unite Ferelden under a single threat was somehow saved from thieves and time by Flemeth. Did her mother foresee this outcome? Had she been waiting for this very day to come? If so, had Morrigan been, once again, an unwitting pawn to Flemeth’s schemes by bringing four wanderers who were in search of secret documents straight to her mother mere three days ago? Another cackle broke her thoughts, and deepened the frown on her face. 

“I may be old, but dwarves, elves, mages, this Arl Eamon, and who knows what else; this sounds like an army to me.”

“Can we do this? Go to Arl Eamon and build an army?” Alistair asked, as if he were not the one who suggested the idea first.

Flemeth uncrossed her arms as she rose to her feet, looming over the Grey Wardens. How she loved to use her height to her advantage. When she spoke, the mirth was gone from her voice. “So you are set, then? Ready to be Grey Wardens?”

“Sure,” Alistair drawled. “Raise an army, stop Loghain from tearing Ferelden into two, kill the archdemon. Why not?”

Mahariel chuckled, pressed a finger against her lips. It made her look even younger. “I’m supposed to be dead twice now—”

“Three,” Alistair interrupted. “Remember that bit with the blood and the choking?”

“Hm. Thrice. Perhaps I can survive a fourth time.” She stood up as well, turned to Flemeth. “Thank you for your help, Asha’bellanar.”

“No, no. Thank you. You are the Grey Wardens here, not I. Now, before you go, there is yet one more thing I can offer you.”

And here Morrigan thought her scowl could go no deeper. She was certain then, that her mother had indeed planned for this day. 

Morrigan chose to approach them then, arranging her face in a pleasant mask. “The stew is bubbling, mother dear. Shall I arrange the table for two or—”

“For one,” said Flemeth. “The wardens will be leaving shortly, girl.”

Whatever her schemes, the sooner the wardens left, the better. “Such a shame—"

"And you will be joining them."

"What?” She rounded on her mother, whose face was set in grim lines and sharp shadows. Was this one of her tricks?

“You heard me, girl. Last time I looked you had ears.”

As the old witch laughed, Morrigan glared at the the two wardens. Alistair’s eyebrows were scrunched as though he was about to hurl, while Mahariel’s face was carefully blank, though she studied Flemeth from the corner of her eyes. Then she turned her gaze to Morrigan.

“Thank you,” the Dalish said, seemingly sincere. “But if Morrigan doesn’t wish to join us—”

“Her magic will be useful,” Flemeth said, as though Morrigan could not speak for herself. “Even better, she knows the Wilds and how to get past the horde.”

Alistair bent down to whisper something to Mahariel, who kept her eyes on Morrigan, almost questioningly. Apparently, it was only she who cared what Morrigan thought of the situation. “Have I no say in this?”

“You’ve been itching to get out the Wilds for years,” Flemeth said, matter-of-factly. “This is your chance. As for you Wardens, consider this repayment for your lives.”

Morrigan scoffed. This was no kind act on Flemeth’s part; it was simply a part of her plan. Yes, Morrigan had been curious to see what lay beyond the forest ever since she was ten, but why send her away now? During a Blight and a brewing civil war? Morrigan glared at her mother, though the latter pretended not to notice.

Mahariel sighed, and Morrigan turned her glare at the elf. “Is this what you want?” Her eyes were on Flemeth, but Morrigan felt the question aimed at her.

“This is not how I wanted this,” Morrigan said, biting the words. “Mother, I’m not even ready.” There were spells to perfect, lessons to finish, few valuables to pack.

But the Witch of the Wilds had made her decision. “You must be. Alone, these two must unite Ferelden against the darkspawn. They need you, Morrigan. Without you, they will fail—” The wardens raised an eyebrow at each other “—and all will perish under the Blight. Even I.”

Morrigan studied the two people who could supposedly unite an entire kingdom. A young warrior who does not know what to do with himself when left alone and a young Dalish who possibly knew nothing outside the forests where her people roamed. And she, Morrigan, who—despite all the magical training her mother had instilled in her—had not travelled far from the borders of the Wilds, was supposed to guide them? Morrigan crossed her arms, eyeing her mother. What did she want from the two Wardens? Why send her to watch them?

Morrigan pressed two fingers to her temples and sighed. “I understand.”

Flemeth turned her attention back to the wardens. Had she also foreseen that Morrigan would concede?

“You, Wardens,” she said, voice ever grimmer. “Do you understand? I give you that which I value above all in this world. I do this because you must succeed.”

The Dalish nodded. Morrigan wished she could believe her mother’s words as easily as Mahariel seemed to.

“I understand,” Mahariel said. And just like that, the discussion ended. Morrigan excused herself to ready for travel.

With a pack filled with spell books and a handful of clothes on her back, her staff on hand, Morrigan presented herself to her new companions with a neutral mask. “I am at your disposal, Grey Wardens,” she said, mimicking the words of the magician in the very first book she had read. “I suggest we head to a village north of the Wilds; ‘tis not far, and you’ll find replacements for what you lost in Ostagar. Or if you prefer—” she spat her next words—"I shall simply be your silent guide.” As her mother no doubt intended.

Mahariel shrugged, tightening the straps of her own pack. “You have knowledge about things I do not. I’d appreciate your thoughts.”

Alistair hummed, eyes narrowing. “I have a feeling you’ll regret that.”

Morrigan rolled her eyes at him. “Oh, how you wound me.”

She pushed past the fool and angled north. Mud squelched under two pairs of feet as the Wardens followed her, then, as they got around the lake, her mother’s voice called.

“Do try to have fun, dear.”

Yes, because that was possible to do on a journey she did not volunteer to undertake, accompanied by a superstitious fool who distrusted magic, and an inexperienced elf whose eyes seemed to dig for secrets. All that while avoiding the darkspawn that threatened the whole continent.

The only good thing to come out from all this, was that for the first time Morrigan would be physically away from her mother. Flemeth could scheme and manipulate all she wanted, but for now, Morrigan was free. And she would be a fool not to use the slack on her leash to set her own plan: to make her freedom permanent.


	7. Secrets in the Mirror

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yet another near-death encounter with darkspawn casts a pall over Mahariel and her companions. But the silence gives Mahariel time to think alone, and that brings answers to the one question she wants answered: what happened to Tamlen.

Mahariel called for a rest, leather strap of her pack slipping from the cold fingers of her left hand. If she could bend over and plant her hands on her knees so she could take deep breaths, she would. But her right shoulder flared with every small movement, and her broken rib seemed to peirce out of her skin with even the most shallow breaths. That left Mahariel with her head tipped back to the muted morning sun as she inhaled, little by little, through pursed lips.

“If we were to stop for another ten minutes, we might find ourselves in Lothering a day later than planned,” Morrigan said. From her muffled voice, Mahariel guessed she had not turned around. At least she didn’t hear retreating footsteps.

A shadow darkened the red behind Mahariel’s eyelids, and she felt her pack shift against the top of her left foot. Mahariel opened her eyes in time to see Alistair rise to his full height and sling her pack over his shoulder, setting the canvas over his own pack. How she wished Flemeth had more time to mend her bones as she did for Alistair; and how she regretted not asking Morrigan to help her at camp last night, before the mage had transformed into a crow and disappeared into the trees.

Mahariel lifted her hand, palm up, to ask for her bag back, but Alistair weaved out of her reach. He angled toward the wooden fence that kept the grass, wild plants, and possibly wild animals away from the main road. With his back to the fence and his palms out to his side, he lifted himself onto the beam. Morrigan scoffed, but she too stepped out of the road, waving her hand for Mahariel to follow her. Sighing in relief, Mahariel joined Morrigan by one of the posts that the beams were nailed to. 

“Remove your cloak, if you please.” Morrigan set her pack on the flat top of the post, but she didn’t rummage through it for balms or oils. Instead, she leaned her staff against the fence then rubbed her palms together. 

Mahariel unclasped her cloak and shrugged out of it. As she draped it over the fence, she glimpsed Alistair over Morrigan’s shoulder; head bowed, hands clasped in front of him. A glint of gold flashed between his fingers, twinkling as it flipped over one knuckle then the next. Then over again in the opposite direction. 

Morrigan cleared her throat. “Should I tend to your shoulder first? Or should I start with mending your rib? I should warn you, I won’t be able to mend your bones completely, unless you wish to spend more than a few minutes in these roads.”

“We could afford an hour, I think.”

Morrigan blinked slowly. “Very well. I shall not take blame when the darkspawn catches up to us.” She flicked a lacquered finger up in an order for Mahariel to move her arm out of her way.

Mahariel eased her right arm in front of her, bent at the elbow so she could hold onto her left shoulder as Morrigan untied the laces of her tunic. A shiver wrapped around Mahariel’s waist as the thick fabric fell away from her skin, inviting the cool morning air to skate along her side. “Morrigan?”

The mage looked up from pulling the leather cord from the last eyelet. “Yes, Mahariel?”

“Are your hands cold?”

Morrigan huffed, her darkly painted lips curling as one of her eyebrows rose. “I would not be overly worried about that, were I you. If anything, you will feel warm. ‘Tis a question of how much heat you can handle.”

Morrigan cupped her hands over the gauze that wrapped Mahariel’s upper torso, and a pale blue light bloomed between her palms. Mahariel gasped, jerked away, and glanced down to make sure Morrigan had not ran her fingers up her side.

“Keep still, if you please,” Morrigan said, not having moved at all. “Otherwise, I’ll stop and we’ll continue on to Lothering.”

Nodding, Mahariel settled against the fence, left hand braced against the wood. As soon as Morrigan hovered her hand close enough for the blue light to touch Mahariel’s skin, the warm trails ran up her side again, though this time, Mahariel’s muscles were tense enough to keep her from wincing away.

“I will have to reach the bone,” Morrigan murmured, eyes flickered up to Mahariel. “The deeper the magic sinks, the hotter it will be, understood?”

Mahariel raised an eyebrow, though she nodded. Healing magic had always felt warm, like crawling under furs during the winter mornings when she didn’t have to leave for the hunt. Sometimes it felt cool, like dipping into a crystal clear spring after an entire day of trekking hills and mountains or open plains. It was always comforting, as it should be. As tendrils of warmth seemed to tickle Mahariel from the inside, she frowned at the notion that healing magic could be uncomfortable. Mahariel’s fingers dug deeper into the fence as heat pooled in her side, specifically, around the second to the last bone of her right rib cage. How in Mythal’s name did she pinpoint that? In her mind, she could see the blue light enveloping the crooked bone, sanding the jagged crack where the crossbow bolt had buried itself. Mahariel twitched, teeth clenched as she bit the urge to scratch an itch that was _ inside _ her. 

“You must take a deep breath.”

Mahariel opened her eyes. When did she even close them? 

“Mahariel. Deep breath, now,” Morrigan said again.

Mahariel inhaled. A tug, a crack. Air froze in her lungs. Then heat rippled from a firm pressure against her rib, throbbing and scalding as it spread across—no,_ through _ her chest, then up her neck and face. A gasp scraped up Mahariel’s throat, and she tasted rust on her tongue. Rust like iron. Like blood. A little girl's voice whispered in the back of her mind, soft and young, and hazy like milky-white eyes.

_ The blood was burning through you. It is a fever. And more. _

Fenedhis. Mahariel’s stomach heaved at the memory of thick darkspawn blood that tingled and burned down her throat. Coughing, Mahariel locked her jaw. If she were to cure herself from the taint, she must swallow the potion. She must complete the ritual. Mahariel gulped, but her mouth was dry. Dry and feverish. Like the rest of her body, as though fire had melted off her skin and left her flesh raw to the sweltering sun. Stop, she wanted to say. Enough, she wanted to scream. But all her mouth could do was suck in as much air as possible. A hot jab hit the crack on her rib bone, Mahariel gasped, another swear word cut off by a pull. By a squeeze.

“Easy, there.” A different voice; deeper, warmer. “Breathe with me.”

Hard warmth pressed against Mahariel’s palm. Rather, someone pressed her left hand against something warm and firm and expanding. Up, then down. Up, then down. Mahariel focused on her hand, on the steady beat underneath it. Inhale, exhale. Inhale, exhale. Over and over again, slower each time, until the air in her lungs melted even as the heat within her flesh ebbed away, leaving her limp and panting. Mahariel opened her eyes and found her lashes scraping over dark waxed fabric. A little lower, her hand disappeared beneath the traveling cloak, held there by a large hand whose fine hairs along its knuckles prickled under Mahariel’s breaths. Something buzzed against her forehead, and when it didn’t stop no matter how much Mahariel shut then opened her eyes, it dawned on her that the buzzing formed words.

“...a little gentler! This hardly happened when your mother healed me.” The buzzing stopped.

The sharp click of Morrigan’s tongue snapped at Mahariel’s right ear. “My mother took two days to mend your arm little by little. And did she not tell you that broken bones are best healed by leaving them alone?”

Mahariel groaned. Flemeth indeed had mentioned something about how the body knew the best way to heal itself, and that magic, if not applied properly could do more harm. Keeper Marethari herself had claimed similar things, though with a gentler tone. But Mahariel did not have six weeks to heal. There was walking to do, and more fighting. Curling her fingers around Alistair’s shirt, Mahariel lifted her forehead from his chest. Slowly, she tilted her body to the left, stretching her right side. She didn’t wince, or gasp, or freeze in pain. Chuckling, Mahariel patted Alistair’s chest before she pressed her hand on her un-broken rib. The skin there felt hotter than the rest of her. “I’d say it was worth it. And that didn’t take too long, either.”

Alistair hummed, which made Mahariel crane her neck to look up at him. One of his eyebrows arched high. “We’ve been here for more than half an hour, Mahariel.”

“Forty-eight minutes to be precise,” Morrigan added. “Five minutes of which, you spent unconscious, propped by this fool.”

Alistair glared at Morrigan. “And thank the Maker I was keeping my eyes on you, otherwise you’d have let her fall and cracked her head open.”

“Spare me the lies you tell yourself. Your attention was not on _ me _.”

A sharp yelp pulled Mahariel’s ears to the treeline beyond the fence.

“That is...that is beside the point. The point is, you were not at all gentle with your magic. If you had stopped, like I told you to—”

Mahariel turned to the wildlands on the other side of the fence, and closed her eyes as she let her ears take over. There. Another yelp. 

“Are you the one with magical knowledge? Or I? The bone would not have set properly and Mahariel would need to have a rest every ten steps she took. Do not presume—”

A bark. Mahariel raised a hand between Alistair and Morrigan, frowning over her shoulder at both of them. Alistair snapped to his full height, eyes hardening as they locked on Mahariel.

“I see your Warden senses have arrived,” he said, voice gone hard, hand wrapping around the hilt of his sword.

“What? No. I hear barking.” Mahariel climbed over the fence—she’d have vaulted over it were it not for her still-unhealed shoulder. By the Creators. “Are there darkspawn hounds?”

As Alistair and Morrigan followed, Mahariel drew one of her swords. How she wished she had her bow and arrow so she didn’t have to face more darkspawn in close quarters. How she wished she could wield a bow, or at least, both her blades.

“Darkspawn hounds. Now that’s something straight from a nightmare. But no, not that I know of.” Alistair glanced down at Mahariel. “Are you feeling well enough to fight?”

Before Mahariel could reply, Morrigan pushed past between them, staff pinned in the crook of one of her elbows as she stepped further among yellow wildflowers and weeds that tickled the ankles. She brought her hands in front of her, palms an inch apart. “Unfortunately, that hardly matters. May I suggest keeping the filthy creatures away from me until I complete my spell.”

Morrigan had a point, though Mahariel hardly needed the reminder. She scarcely had any real choice since the day she made the worst decision in her life. Mahariel cut the thought with a swing of her blade. To her right, away from her sword hand, Alistair glance at her from the corner of his eyes, though he said nothing. Deeper in the trees, the barking grew louder, more frantic; and as Mahariel squinted, she caught a flash of brown. A fleck of white.

A mabari burst through between ancient trees, snout pulled back over fangs, breath puffing in trails as its paws tore into the grass and soil. Mud clung to its coat, making the course fur look more like chocolate.

“I know that hound,” Mahariel murmured the same time Alistair said, “It’s coming straight at us.”

“Shall we worry about what is behind the mutt,” said Morrigan.

Mahariel saw three dark figures darting between the trees before Alistair put a number to the darkspawn he sensed. Eight, he said, without doubt. Eight darkspawn, and they all were chasing the mabari, who bounded true as an arrow toward them. Mahariel tightened her grip on her dar’missan and jogged to meet the dog halfway. Morrigan did say to keep the darkspawn away from her.

Within two feet, the mabari reared on its hind legs and planted its front paws on Mahariel’s stomach. It—well, he barked three times, pushed off, turned around, then growled at the trees. Rather, at the figures that emerged from the trees. Alistair raised his shield, which Mahariel squinted at. His former shield had been bigger and made of silverite. This new one, looted from a genlock scout at the edge of the Korcari, was rounded and made of wood. Not even padded with leather on the inside. 

“My arm is fine.”

Mahariel looked up and found Alistair watching her. “It’s not your arm I’m worried about. If these ones have crossbows...” 

“They’d have fired at us by now,” Alistair said, jutting his chin at the two hurlocks that stumbled first into the clearing. 

The creatures paused at the tree line, heads jerking around, as if avoiding the sun’s light. Then, in unison, they turned their eyes to Mahariel and Alistair. 

“Look who finally realized we’re not their darkspawn brothers.” Alistair twirled his sword in his right hand. “Ready?”

Mahariel shrugged one shoulder. Then the hurlocks charged. A third burst into the clearing, stumbling even as it raised its arm to block the light. Three genlocks followed it, heads down and shields low, prepared to ram anything that got in their way. Alistair hunkered lower, then took off, angling toward the first two hurlock. The mabari followed his lead, running straight toward the three genlocks. Andruil guide them. 

As much as Mahariel wanted to watch what exactly Alistair and the mabari planned to do, the hurlock who had been blinded began staggering to its feet. Mahariel threw her weight forward and ran. She aimed left of the creature, arcing away until her feet brought her slightly behind. The hurlock pushed to one knee, both of which were covered with spiked plates stained brown. Dried blood. Mahariel pushed from the ground harder, legs reached farther. She could see one milky eye, squinted under the shade of a clawed hand. A rusted serrated sword jutted from the ground, held up at an angle by the hand that kept the hurlock from pitching to the ground again. If Mahariel’s right arm worked, she’d have angled behind the creature; as it were, she shifted right, left arm cocked back. Three feet. Two feet. A flash of rotted skin as the gaunt face looked up, eyes still squinted. Mahariel swept her arm forward as she streaked in front of the hurlock. The blade bit into skin and muscle, tugging back in reluctance to let go. But Mahariel dug her fingers into the grip and pulled. A thump and a clunk. Then a glint to her left.

Mahariel folded her right leg, kicked out the left as she threw her weight back. Her right shoulder hit the ground and she cursed. Blood coated her tongue. Something thudded to her right—a spear. Mahariel rolled right, bringing her sword high in front of her. A clang, a blow. Mahariel’s left knee dug deeper into the soil, left arm shaking as she held her blade against a broadsword. A hurlock’s lipless grin loomed over her, just a foot from her face, and Mahariel stopped breathing lest she gagged on the stench and lost focus. The hurlock put more of its weight into its sword and Mahariel twisted, tipped her sword downward and forced the broadsword to scrape along her blade’s curve. Instead of elbowing the creature behind its knees—as her muscles tensed to do, Mahariel jerked her blade toward herself to free it from the hurlock’s sword, then rammed the pommel under the darkspawn’s chin. Something cracked, but it mattered less. Head tipped back, the hurlock’s neck was exposed, and Mahariel sliced her blade across black-veined skin. A familiar roar from the trees was Mahariel’s only warning to dodge. She jumped back, stepped on something. Pain lanced up her leg and she crashed to the ground. Two large fists blocked the sky then hurtled down at Mahariel; all she saw was black. 

A beat, then another. _ Bu-bump. Bu-bump _ . _ Bu-bump _ . _ Crack. _ The blackness broke into pieces of glass that rained down on Mahariel. She didn’t move, or make a noise, or even blink. Cold specks landed on her cheek, then trickled away. Ice, not glass. They glittered in the sun, falling around and on Mahariel, as if it were the first snow day of the year. Then something wet and hot swiped along her nose and mouth. 

Mahariel blinked up at big warm eyes and lolling tongue. 

“Maker, not again.”

She blinked again, and another pair of warm eyes looked down at her. This one without the lolling tongue, but with a frown that was covered in splatters of blood. 

“Mahariel? Can you hear me? Can you move?” Alistair asked as he crouched, hands hovering.

Mahariel flexed her fingers and, when that didn’t cause her immeasurable pain, she rolled on her left side and pushed herself up to sit on one hip. Alistair’s arm braced around her shoulders; Mahariel shivered at the coldness of his hand. 

“_You two _ can clearly move,” Mahariel mumbled as she looked at the glittering shards of ice that had once been an ogre. As the mabari pushed some of the crystal-like pieces with his snout, they melted under his breath and coated his nose with a shine. “Morrigan?”

“Almost squashed to death, yet you still worry about others before yourself. I did not believe to hear foolery from you, yet I suppose I do not know you well enough.”

Mahariel glanced over her shoulder to see Morrigan approaching them with slow steps, as if she didn’t walk over torn pieces of genlocks, as if her yellow eyes didn’t see the chunks of skin on Alistair’s right hand, the blood that glued Mahariel’s tunic to her skin. Morrigan circled to stand in front of Mahariel, folding her arms against her chest. She didn’t say anything else or made any gestures, though Mahariel thought the glow in her eyes posed a challenge. One of her eyebrows rose. The mabari barked at her, while Alistair rolled his eyes. He opened his mouth to say something, possibly to tell Morrigan to simply spit out her words, but Mahariel patted his hand—the one holding on to her shoulder.

“Would you heal my shoulder still?” Mahariel asked.

“And her foot,” Alistair added. 

Indeed, blood coated the heel of Mahariel’s left foot, though she felt no pain from that area. Not at the moment, anyway. Alistair reached over to pluck something by Mahariel’s foot; his hand lifted a spear with a four inch blade and a crossguard that ran perpendicular to the blade. A boar-hunting spear. Except this one was wrapped with dark veins from tip to tip.

“We’ll need to burn this,” Alistair said, throwing the spear away. His eyes scanned the bodies in the clearing. “All of them. But first...Morrigan?”

Without a word, Morrigan sat, legs folded under her, and cupped her hands over Mahariel’s right shoulder.

Mahariel woke up not feeling her legs. She jolted up and found a dark brown hound draped over her lap. Right. Mabari, darkspawn, ogre. Being an inch away from death. Sighing, Mahariel set her palm between the mabari’s ears, which twitched. Then the head lifted, turned to her. The mabari stood, pushed his nose against Mahariel’s cheek and huffed gently. Before Mahariel could be licked again, she wriggled her fingers under the dog’s chin, making his stubby tailed flap on the ground.

“Ow! You did that on purpose!”

“I did no such thing.”

In the middle of the clearing, a pile of bodies burst into flames, seemingly by itself. But Morrigan stood behind the pyre. Across her, with his back to Mahariel, Alistair shook out his hand.

The mabari tilted his head, eyes on the bickering. Then he barked. Alistair’s attention turned their way, and even if he was several paces away, Mahariel saw the widening of his eyes. The expression pulled memories from two days ago, to the morning she had woken up after the disaster at Ostagar. A small hut, a door opening to a banked fire. Alistair’s broad back, shoulders slouched, head not turning from the equally still pond.

“See? There is your fellow Grey Warden,” Flemeth had said before Mahariel could call to Alistair herself. “You worry too much, young man.”

But Mahariel knew Alistair wasn’t listening after he turned around and saw her. He had that wide-eyed look, lips parted half in a gasp, half in a smile. “_You_,” he had shout-whispered, ran to her with outstretched arm. Then he froze. His eyes jumped to all the places fresh white bandages covered Mahariel’s body; all the while, his right hand, the one not trapped in a cast, gestured up and down. Then he chuckled once, breathy and soft, and Mahariel couldn’t help but return a rueful sigh. Alistair’s fumbling hand had settled around her wrist, rough with callouses yet gentle in pressure. “You’re alive. I thought you were dead for sure.”

From Alistair’s look as he knelt next to Mahariel in the off-road clearing, she thought he would say the words again, how he thought she was dead. Again. Instead he chuckled, dry as Mahariel’s throat felt.

“Is this going to be a regular thing with you?” he huffed. “Because the next time it happens, I’d like to be notified beforehand.” 

“So would I.”

Alistair offered his hand, but as Mahariel shifted, pins and needles spiked along her legs. She shook her head, noted the problem to Alistair. He crouched and sat with her, chuckling as he patted the mabari’s side.

“You’re a big lad, aren’t you? Big and strong and heavy.”

The dog barked. Mahariel heard Morrigan groan from her spot behind the violet flames of the pyre. 

“I think he was looking for you,” Alistair said, eyes on the hound. “He’s, uh, chosen you. Mabari are like that; they call it imprinting.”

“Does this mean we’re going to have this mangy beast following us about now?” Morrigan called out. The fire spat ash into the air. “Wonderful.”

Alistair pouted. “He’s not mangy! At any rate, he must have remembered you helping him at Ostagar, Mahariel. You’re imprinted—” he laughed “—Lucky you.”

The mabari barked again, tongue out as he gazed up at Mahariel. The latter didn’t know what Alistair found funny about the situation, but she did know that she rather liked the idea of having a war hound fighting alongside her. “My ancestors used to fight with wolves at their side.”

“Yes, yes,” Morrigan snapped. The fire was out, and only a small mound of ash remained in front of her. “‘Tis all well and good, and since I am the only one who sees time moving, may I remind you that we still need to reach Lothering by the end of tomorrow.”

Alistair rolled his eyes but he stood up, offering his hand again. Mahariel took it, and as she steadied herself, she placed her other hand on his knuckles. “I’m sorry I worried you. Now that I am completely healed, I can promise you that I will do better.”

Alistair blinked, and Mahariel felt his hand twitch between her palms. “Uh...”

The mabari barked, calling Alistair’s eyes to him.

“He says he wants a name.”

Mahariel smiled, shook her head as she headed for Morrigan, who had planted her hand on a hip. “Does he say what name he wants?”

Alistair crouched to ask the mabari. Two barks and a tail wag was his reply.

“He said his name is Barkspawn.”

Mahariel laughed, waved the name away with her right hand—because she can do that now without crying or feeling noxious. “No.”

Mahariel never thought forests were silent. Snorts from her clan’s hala herd woke her in the morning, while hoots of unseen owls lulled her to sleep at night. In between, the buzzing murmurs of near a hundred voices, along with the twang of bows or thwack of wooden swords or clanging pots or snapping fabric kept adrenaline thrumming in Mahariel’s veins. Sometimes, in the height of summer and in the depths of winter, the wind carried whispers; whispers that only Mahariel, Keeper Marethari and Merrill heard. Mahariel had not understood the words, as the Keeper and her First had, but they pulled her ears nonetheless. No, forests were never silent. 

The small black pot bubbled over the fire, which hissed as droplets of broth touched the burning wood. The river that funneled into Lake Calenhad rushed and tumbled just under the overhang that they had set camp on. Somewhere behind Mahariel, in the cover of trees, a bird knocked its beak into a trunk—_ rata tat, rata tat, rata tat. _In the sky, a raven circled the camp, cawed once before disappearing among the foliage. Morrigan or a common raven? Curled at Mahariel’s feet, Anvil snored in his sleep. So many echoing sounds, yet this new camp with three other companions was quiet.

Mahariel scooped some soup, potatoes, and meat into a wooden bowl, set the lid of the pot askew to let the steam out, patted Anvil between the ears, then made her way to the pine tree just beyond the light of the campfire. Alistair sat against the trunk, head tilted back and eyes closed. Between the thumb and the first finger of his right hand, a gold ring glinted. Mahariel had seen him roll the ring over and over along his knuckles in the past two days, but she hadn’t properly seen the image embossed on its face yet. She hadn’t talked to Alistair properly since they left Flemeth’s hut, either. Not when Alistair had lagged behind the group, only spoke when he needed to. Mahariel had thought he had come out of his quiet grief after they fought the darkspawn just this morning, but it seemed she had read his banter wrong. Instead of rousing the man, Mahariel placed the bowl of food next to Alistair, and returned to the fire to clean what turned out to be a solitary dinner. 

An hour later, Mahariel tipped her head back to watch gauzy clouds pass across the full moon, legs swaying over the overhang of the rocky hill that dropped down to the Drakon River. Wincing, Mahariel brushed the tips of her fingers down her right side. Her skin still felt warmer than her entire body, and the area itched even though Mahariel had removed the thick bandages as soon as they made camp. Morrigan had clucked her tongue at her, told her to stop dragging her nails across the reddish skin, threatened to never heal her again, then turned into a raven and flew off. Frowning at the memory, Mahariel pressed her palms under her thighs. 

They would reach Lothering by morning, and from there, they had to summon those who signed the Grey Warden treaties. The Dalish included. If they hurried, if they bought horses, would they catch up to her clan? Or would Mahariel’s family be too far north by then?

Sighing, Mahariel fished her ironbark pendant from under her shirt, which luckily hadn’t been stained by the darkspawn blood on her now-drying tunic. Warmed by her skin and sapphire eyes glinting under the moon, the hala skull almost looked alive. _ What now? _ It seemed to ask, just as it had on the morning Mahariel arrived at Ostagar. What, indeed. Within five days, Mahariel lost her first love, almost died from the taint, left her clan and the only life she knew, joined a secretive order, almost died in joining said order, fought in a battle, almost killed by an ogre in said battle, indebted herself to the Asha’bellanar, and almost got pounded to death by yet another ogre. Fenedhis. All that in mere five days; four near-deaths in five days. How long would it take them to gather an army? How long to defeat the darkspawn after that? How could they convince Teyrn Loghain that the Blight was real? Where was Tamlen? How was he faring? How can Mahariel find him? How, how, how, how, how?

Light flashed behind Mahariel’s eyes and a zap ran up her hand. The pendant thudded against her chest, its sapphire eyes glowed white under the moon, and from where it lay, heat sank through Mahariel’s shirt and into her skin. Right on the burn mark in the middle of her chest. Mahariel ripped the necklace over her head and dangled the pendant over the cliff. The oval ironbark pendant spun and spun, sapphires winking at her. It was this necklace’s fault, wasn’t it? The mirror hidden in that secret room, buried in a ruin lost to the elves, had stayed dormant for who knew how long. It was only those three shemlen Tamlen had caught who somehow found the cave, and thus led Mahariel and Tamlen to it. And when Mahariel had gotten close enough, didn’t the mirror light up from the inside? Didn’t its light shine brighter with every step she had taken closer? Didn’t Tamlen see figures inside the mirror? Watching eyes. A city. A darkness. The taint?

The wooden beads scraped Mahariel’s cold palm as the necklace slipped. But Mahariel clenched her hand around the tiny figures of animals chasing each other around the thread, ending with the oval pendant, only to begin the loop again. Like a pattern. A pattern that Mahariel’s fingertips had traced along the walls of the hallway that led to the secret door, a pattern of vines and deer and woodland beasts that marched toward a smooth round surface ringed with curvy lines—the symbol of the sun. Mahariel’s unblinking eyes followed the swing of her pendant. The hala skull. The sun. Elgar’nan. Fire. Her burn mark. 

By Dirthamen’s grace! Was this it? Had she found the first clue in finding Tamlen? Mahariel frowned, the pendant growing hazy, watery, as it slowed its swing. The hala skull spun to face Mahariel and stopped. Stared. _ What now? _ If Tamlen saw someone or something or somewhere beyond the mirror, was it a door? A magical portal that happened to be activated by the only heirloom Mahariel’s father left with her. Mahariel laughed, so shaky and brittle that she clicked her jaw shut. Oh, how she hated coincidences! Particularly because they were never just coincidences.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reference to the little girl with milky eyes can be found in Shadows and Reflections, Ch. 9 - https://archiveofourown.org/works/6406009/chapters/17070394  
Reference to the elvhen ruins in the Brecilian forest is found in Shadows and Reflections, Ch. 37 - https://archiveofourown.org/works/6406009/chapters/35811237
> 
> You can read those chapters independently without being too confused, I think.


	8. Common Ground

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alistair clears his head after the disaster at Ostagar and realizes he is not as alone as he feels.

Soup had never been that interesting. Not even the thick creamy ones topped with freshly plucked sprigs of some kitchen plant that Lady Isolde often ate when she caught a cold. Yet Alistair’s eyes were still glued to the bowl of stew that kept him company in his dark spot under an old oak. This particular soup wasn’t interesting because it had diced potatoes, or strips of dried red meat; it was surprising because when Alistair jerked from his nap, it was already there, waiting in its congealed chunkiness. It took two seconds after Alistair rubbed away the crust that sealed his eyes for him to realize Mahariel had left it for him—Maker knew Morrigan wouldn’t do such a thing, and even if the the mabari were that thoughtful he didn’t have the thumbs to serve him a bowl. That realization happened some five minutes ago. Or maybe ten. It hardly mattered, did it? It could sit there for hours upon hours and Alistair’s back wouldn’t push off from the tree trunk, his hands wouldn’t reach out for the bowl. He wasn’t even sure if he would swallow the food if he managed to get it into his mouth. 

No, it was so much simpler to stare at it. Stare and think about how Mahariel must have fetched water from the river at the bottom of the hill, how she must have poured the last bag of dried meat into the boiling water, how she must have chopped the few potatoes Flemeth had given them. Alistair groaned, thumped his head against the tree trunk. Maker, did he let Mahariel do all those chores while he sat there in his gloomy corner wishing Flemeth had—

Alistair slapped his palms to his cheeks. And _ there _was the reason why he preferred mindless staring; it was either that, or his mind would race back to Ostagar and pour over the endless versions of how he could possibly save Duncan and the king, how he could have insisted on joining the battlefield so he could guard Duncan’s back—just as Duncan had been there to help him adjust after the Joining, to train him and hone his swordplay; just as Duncan had stood next to him, in front of the grand cleric and Knight-Commander Glavin, as he pulled him out of the Chantry before Alistair could give reluctant vows. And if the battle was set to be lost, if that was the Maker’s or Andraste’s or whoever’s blasted plan, then Alistair should have fought alongside his mentor, his friends, and stayed true to his oath.

But there he was, sitting alone in the dark, staring at the suddenly misty soup Mahariel had cooked. Blinking away the hot sting in his eyes, Alistair reached forward and cradled the cold wooden bowl in his hands and brought the spoon to his lips. Even as he swallowed spoon after spoon of surprisingly meaty soup, his eyes wandered until they landed in some middle distance where Alistair saw nothing. It was when the spoon thunked against the bottom of the bowl that the world snapped its fingers in front of Alistair’s face, and he saw an empty camp. Empty except for a lounging mabari by the fire, head rested on his front paws, snout pointed toward the shadows between the woods. 

Cursing, Alistair shot to his feet, strode toward the low fire. A small covered black pot was next to it, and as Alistair lifted the lid, his eyebrows rose to find it a quarter full. If he ate his fill and there was still one serving left in the pot, then who didn’t eat? Morrigan or Mahariel? Who had the miserable luck of eating alone even though other people were within view? Not Morrigan; the woman seemed to prefer keeping her distance, as proven by her small closed tent that barely toed the ring of light the campfire gave. Was she even inside? Or did she transform into a crow and fly off again?

Oh, Maker.

Alistair crouched next to Anvil, ran one hand along his spine. “Is your master out there all by herself?”

The mabari lifted his head, huffed at Alistair, then set his head on his paws again, eyes expectant on the woods. 

“Right, then. Keep an eye out for a bit, Anvil.”

The mabari barked an affirmative, or what Alistair felt was an affirmative. He headed to the slight parting of trees just behind Mahariel’s little tent; why she would pull her bedroll that far from the fire and that close to the woods Alistair didn’t know for sure, but he suspected it had something to do about her clan. The forest was her home, wasn’t it? It was familiar to her, and when everything comforting and familiar and _ right _ got ripped away from someone, they tended to seek anything that reminded them of home. What was one to do when that same reminder was just as painful, just as terrible, as losing one’s home? Was he supposed to talk about it? Relive the event with additional emotional commentary on every single detail that stung his eyes and crushed his chest and made him wished he had not survived Ostagar?

A twig snapped under Alistair’s foot, freezing him between trees joined by a garland of thick green vines. That wasn’t fair, was it? For him to wish he hadn’t survived, Mahariel would share his fate. She didn’t deserve that. No one did. No one deserved to throw their lives away in a futile battle, no one deserved to be abandoned by their general. Yet most of the Fereldan army and all the Fereldan Grey Wardens were gone; now here Alistair was, too wrapped in his own grief to even share a meal with the only other Grey Warden left, his only friend left. At the very least, he and Mahariel could compete in who had a more miserable life over a small fire and bowls of congealed soup.

Snagging branches and snapping twigs as he did, Alistair imagined every predator in the forest knew where he was. Who knew strolling through a city would be so different to walking in deep woods! He will never find out how Mahariel had made it looked so easy—weaving and ducking and skipping. She was truly at home in the forest. A pang in Alistair's chest almost made him turn back. Duncan...

Alistair took a shaky breath. Duncan had shared his notes on the promising new recruit as they had waited for Mahariel to wake from her Joining. The journal was with its owner—as it always was, lost during the battle, but Alistair remembered the words written in it:

_ “An experienced fighter and a natural hunter. Like Alistair was during his Joining, she has endless questions. I might have revealed more than I realized, yet I don’t begrudge the craft she uses to pull the words out of me. She has the taint for almost a week now, yet it was she who caught our dinner. Pale and coughing, but her veins have not turned black. The lifestyle of the Dalish had trained her well. _

_ She brought ink and a journal with her; draws when the fever keeps her from sleep. I fear that soon, I’ll have to take that leisure away from her too. We are close. The search for recruits has ended. Maker watch over their Joining.”_

Alistair could just imagine Duncan worrying at his beard as he monitored his new ward, he can imagine the crease upon his brow at the heavy price his new recruit might pay. He was fond of her, as he was of all young Wardens. But the deep groves his pen had etched on the paper told Alistair that Mahariel’s recruitment was one he regretted deeply. Why was that? Did Duncan regret taking Alistair from the Chantry too?

It took a good ten minutes before Alistair managed to untangle his legs from roots and vines, and stumbled into a clearing. The full moon was at its peak, turning the grass silvery as they swayed with the breeze. In the distance, the Brecilian Forest slept, silent and untouched by moonlight. Closer to camp, Alistair caught the rush of the river, rather loud and brash in the night. He made his way toward the sound. From what Alistair remembered during their hike up the hill, there was an outcropping that overlooked where the river accelerated as it readied to be emptied into Lake Calenhad; a secluded area where one might shrug off the demands of the world.

Alistair slowed his steps as he neared the cliff. On the largest boulder, Mahariel looked out into space, back straight, leaning forward from the waist. Another step closer revealed that she had her left arm outstretched, fist clenched. There was a glint of gemstones. An amulet. The pendant pulsed in silver light as it turned and turned. Alistair didn’t dare to move. Was he intruding? Was he presumptuous in thinking that maybe, this time, he could offer his fellow Warden some consolation?

A gust of wind lifted Mahariel’s unbound hair off her shoulders, spun the amulet into a tighter spin, and, as the wind reached Alistair, delivered a sigh to his ears. He stepped forward. He made his approach as loud as possible over the roar of the water below; he dragged his feet through the grass and kicked loose stones right off the cliff. It was only after he settled next to Mahariel that the latter turned to him. It was her eyes that always undid him. The first time he caught a glint in her eyes was the night she woke up as a Grey Warden, in a small tent lit only by a single candle. A reflection of the light, Alistair guessed. Or an echo of the Joining ritual—Alistair intimately knew the strange things the Joining did during and after the ritual, glowing blue eyes included. Was he shocked and glad to learn that he was wrong; apparently elf eyes worked differently than human eyes, and Alistair just hadn’t met an elf in close quarters at night with only the light of a campfire; so how could he have known that their eyes glowed like cats?

If Mahariel's eyes glowed before the camp fire, they dazzled under the moonlight—quick bursts of light with each tilt of the head and flutter of the eyes. How such wonder could be treated as sinister and savage, Alistair would never understand.

“It belonged to my father,” Mahariel began. She turned back to the amulet, squinting at it, before she offered it to Alistair. 

He cupped his hands and she settled the amulet on his palms. The necklace was warm, somehow. The warmth of which prickled the hair along his arms. 

“I had to leave the family I know because of such little thing.”

For such a little thing, it weighed more than the gold ring around his middle finger, and that wasn't a small ring at all. “I thought you joined the Wardens because of the dashing uniform?”

Alistair got a sideways glance from Mahariel, though it wasn't paired with a scowl. “Alright, alright. Serious talk, I get it. You know, I had the impression you left your clan because of the taint?"

Mahariel rolled her shoulders. “I don't understand it fully yet, but I feel that that amulet started all this. I didn't want anything to do with that thing until—” Mahariel dipped her head, face curtained by her hair.

“Until?”

Movement drew Alistair's eyes down to Mahariel's hands on her lap, where she twisted the silver ring she always wore around her left ring-finger. For the first time, Alistair cleary saw that runes were engraved along its surface, not unlike his own ring, although Mahariel's was a simple band with no bezel. 

Mahariel clenched her hands into fists, and Alistair didn't know whether to uncurl her fingers or to look away. “Until someone convinced me otherwise. And now he is lost, sick with the taint. Ironic, is it not?”

“The Maker is fond of irony, or so I heard,” Alistair murmured as he turned the wooden pendant around. It was barely longer than his forefinger and not even as thick as his pinky, yet the pendant was weighty, as though it wasn’t hollow. On both faces, soft lines forming the figure of a horned animal were engraved, its eyes set with sapphire. Wooden beads carved into wolves, owls, and stags dangled between his fingers, spinning in their leather string.

“So do the Creators, it seems.”

Alistair’s head snapped up. An apology already formed in his lips, only to be cut off by the shake of Mahariel’s head.

With a deep breath, she gazed up at the moon. “I grew up believing that my parents had died together, when I was too young to even remember their faces. I knew my father was our previous Keeper; but I did not know he was killed by bandits—both humans and elves.”

Mahariel closed her eyes. Unmoving and silent, she resembled the marble busts he once saw at the Denerim Palace: cold, uncaring, lifeless. Alistair itched to shake Mahariel into action, shake her so she would open her eyes and glare at him or raise an eyebrow at his audacity or slap his hands away, whichever. So long as she didn't look like stone. 

Instead, he pressed his hands under his arms and said, “And your mother?”

Her lips barely moved as she answered. “She was injured in that same ambush, but she lived. She birthed me, and soon after she disappeared into the night, leaving only a trinket.”

Alistair’s fingers curled around the amulet. The way she said it, so matter-of-factly, caved his chest. “Do you resent her?”

He posed the question as innocently as possible, but Mahariel must have caught something in his voice for her eyes snapped open and fell on him. He held her gaze, only the river and wind stirred the night; Alistair didn’t know what she was looking for but he hid nothing from her.

“I know why she did it; she was lonely. She lost her love.” Mahariel shook her head, eyebrows knitted in a frown. Shadows swirled in her eyes. “But I don’t understand how she could easily abandon me. How could she cast aside her child? His child? It was her duty to raise me. She could have at least waited until I could wipe my own—” She scraped her nails on her scalp, sighing away her frustration.

Maker’s breath. How could he make this better? He had asked similar questions himself and they remained largely unanswered to this day. Why was he sent away? Sent away twice, by two different men. What would his mother do, had she survived? Does his sister know he existed? Alistair’s thumb traced along the etched amulet, a frown forming on his brow. “You wanted to throw this away.”

Mahariel froze. Her dark hair still partly hid her face from Alistair’s view, but there was no mistaking the tensing of her already square shoulders. 

“Forgive me, I didn’t mean....” The gems on the pendant’s face dug into the pad of Alistair’s thumb, but he couldn’t uncurl his fingers from the smooth wood. “I went too far, I apologize.”

For two heartbeats, Mahariel didn’t move nor talk, and Alistair considered setting the necklace down on the boulder they sat on and return to camp. But before his mind could list the disadvantages and benefits of each choice, a gust blew from the north. 

Mahariel wrestled strands of her hair from the wind then hooked them behind her ear, revealing a defeated smile on her face. “My need for it overshadows my spite against my mother.”

Alistair was on his knees at once. He jerked his chin at Mahariel. “Here. Lift your hair for a moment.”

She raised an eyebrow even as she gathered the fine tresses, swirling it into a bun. Alistair set the amulet against her throat, just below the red jewel that reminded her of her oath and sacrifice. It took two attempts for his trembling fingers to fasten the clasp.

“You know,” he said, tugging at the lock to ensure it was in place, “you’re lucky that you're lacking in spite. Spite only leads to broken things, regret, a burnt bread, and a rat the size of a dog following you around.”

Mahariel still had a hand supporting her bun as she turned her torso around to face him, and Alistair had the unexpected and irrational pleasure of seeing both amulets, red and umber, glimmer under the loose ties of Mahariel's collar, right against the bare triangle of skin that her green kerchief failed to cover. Another chord hanging from her neck dipped well beneath her shirt. Alistair shot to his feet, pretending to stretch his legs.

“A bread? and a rat?” Mahariel asked after a beat. "All together at once?”

There was amusement in her voice, but Alistair didn’t dare look at her yet. “Oh, they’re not related at all. Separate incidents.”

She chuckled. Alistair had to look then. She was fully facing him now, legs curled under her. The rigidity of her spine was back, a forward energy directed solely on Alistair. Her eyebrows were raised, lips parted in a half formed smile. “You truly are a strange human,” she said. There was no derision in her voice, no judgement; just wonder. And maybe confusion.

Alistair shrugged, made a show of crossing his arms. “Stranger than you realize. Not so eager to travel with me now, are we?” 

Mahariel studied him from head to toe; it made Alistair squirm, made him want to bolt back to the camp, but the light in her eyes turned him to stone with such ease, such persuasion that any revered mother would beg to get staring lessons from this woman. 

Then Mahariel’s head dropped. A hand swept under the hair that fell over her face. Alistair dropped back on his knees, hands hovered over Mahariel's shoulders.

“What's wrong? I mean, is something wrong? Aside from the Blight and all.”

When she looked up, Alistair deflated in relief to find her smiling. Close-lipped. Only a little more than a curl at the corners of her lips. But her brows were smooth. Unburdened.

“I’m glad you are here, Alistair. Thank you, for listening.”

A tickle ran up Alistair’s nose; he had to blink it away a few times. How incredibly good and satisfying and utterly eye-liquid inducing it was to hear those words. And he thought _ he _ came here to comfort her. Alistair pushed himself to his feet again, paused to offer a hand to the only other surviving Warden in Ferelden. “Whenever you need me. Come on, let’s get you to bed before Barkspawn decides to claim your tent.”

“Anvil,” Mahariel said. She took his hand and let herself be hoisted to her feet. “His name is Anvil.”

“That’s what I said; Barkspawn.”

Mahariel gave his arm a sharp tug, and Alistair grinned at her. The promising recruit. Duncan's recruit. Alistair's smile slipped off his face as he let go of her hand. 

Mahariel tilted her head, eyes softening, “Alistair—”

Alistair raised his hands, palms forward. “No. Please, don’t. Not this moment, at least.”

Mahariel nodded. Grief and panic loosened their bony grip around Alistair's neck, and though their cold touch didn't vanish completely, his breath came easier.

Side by side, Alistair and Mahariel returned to camp in silence, with her leading, of course. It was only when Mahariel was half crouched at the tent flaps did he call to her. Bad timing, really, because Mahariel had to crane her neck back and up to keep her face from being licked by Anvil, who sat by the tent’s entrance.

Mahariel said an elvhen word to Anvil, who immediately rested his head on his paws, then crawled back out to stand. “Yes, Alistair?”

Alistair thumbed the runed bezel of his ring— well, not really his ring, but the ring he found after his first encounter with darkspawn. “I just wanted to say, I promise to do better too.”

Mahariel blinked up at him, then that close-lipped smile came back. Her hand darted out, too fast and too sudden for Alistair to realize what she meant to do until he felt a warm hand squeeze his fingers. 

“Good night, Alistair,” Mahariel said, then her touch was gone, then she was gone. 

But Alistair didn’t feel alone, and grief didn’t wrap his chest as tightly as it did mere hours ago.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year! Sorry I missed an update or two. I'm out of town right now and lost track of days. But hopefully I'll upload the next chapter tomorrow, I'm just gonna edit that next.


	9. A Vision of Roses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tending to the refugees from Ostagar, Leliana puts aside her vision from the Maker to concentrate on helping the injured. But just when she is ready to accept her visions as simple wistful dreams, she meets three mysterious figures and their mabari war dog.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you've read the short A Vision of Roses, don't worry, this isn't the exact same thing. I changed some things, added a few. But the general gist is quite similar.

Soldiers poured from the Korcari Wilds in bouts. It started with a tight column of dark armour; they did not raise their banner nor did they announce who they were as they arrived in Lothering two days ago, but none mistook the grim man at the head of the battalion as someone other than Teyrn Loghain Mac Tir, Hero of River Dane. He had gone straight into the revered mother’s office, which remained locked until half an hour later, when the Teyrn gathered the villagers in front of the Chantry and made his announcement: On the 13th of Solace the Battle of Ostagar against the darkspawn was lost, and King Cailan was killed in battle. 

Cold dread had pushed Leliana back a step as she stared at the Teyrn’s back when he called for the bounty on any Grey Warden that might have survived the battle, for their failure was as much responsible for the king’s death as the darkspawn were. That afternoon, Loghain left for Denerim, taking with him half the guards and soldiers that were meant to protect Lothering. That night, Leliana spent an hour and a half on her knees, praying to the Maker and Andraste to help the poor souls who departed, and for those that yet fight for their lives. That was the first night she saw the vision.

At dawn yesterday, the first groups of survivors, which numbered no more than a dozen men each, began trickling into the village. Most bore the fereldan lions on their chesplates, while others wore white paints on their faces, none carried the griffons of the Grey Wardens. That afternoon came the pairs, limping into the Chantry in need of treatment and food. Half the stock of gauze had been used to cover burns and stab wounds. Leliana and the other sisters in the chantry had to use soft-leather thongs or ropes as makeshift slings for the stragglers, who ranged from soldiers, mercenaries, camp followers, and even a few Chasind. All of whom shared the same news: the darkspawn won.

WIth each person that arrived in Lothering seeking refuge, the truth of Ferelden’s defeat bit harder into Leliana’s heart. And the harder it bit, the longer she stayed awake at night, staring at Andraste’s candle-lit face as the prophet looked over the bowed heads before her. And when sleep came for Leliana, the vision called to her.

She saw the darkness in her dreams, but she had refused to believe it. For if the king and his army, led by the Hero of River Dane, fighting beside the noble Grey Wardens were not enough to push back the darkspawn horde, who was to save the women and children? The ill and the old? They had to win, Leliana thought. Yet the evidence to the contrary lay in front of her, groaning and bleeding in rows of pallets that lined the nave of the chantry. Most of the injured would not survive the night, and all that Leliana could do was pray for the Maker to lend His hands to them. Even if her prayers were answered three nights ago, when the dream first started, Leliana had yet to learn its meaning.

For three nights, a single white rose bloomed amid ashen flowers and fallen leaves. And upon waking each morning after, Leliana hurried to the chantry garden, white nightgown stained as her knees fell on barren soil. This morning, Leliana bottled the urge to even peek at the courtyard. Perhaps her mind was exhausted from the inpour of refugees she could not help. Perhaps she was desperate for a solution, and her imagination was humoring her. After all, why would the Maker choose to talk to her? She who was a liar and a killer.

“Sister?”

Leliana jumped despite the sweetness of the voice. She took a deep breath and turned away from the altar. A young lady with dark hair and a red kerchief tied around her neck stood with her arms outstretched, offering a pile of blankets and linens.

“For those who need them,” she said.

“There’s quite a number,” Leliana said, hands hovering on her side. “You have three siblings, no? Do you have enough left for your family?”

The young woman gave a rueful smile. “We’re leaving Lothering; we need to pack light, as my brothers and sister say.”

“Ah. I see.” Leliana took the gift in her arms, soft in that well-worn manner. “Thank you…”

“Bethany,” the young woman inclined her head. “Farewell, Sister.”

Leliana sighed as she watched Bethany’s retreating figure. She was a common face in the chantry, but now, like a few others, she might never return. Would that the entire populace of Lothering were able to flee north.

Blankets draped over her arms, Leliana marched to the tents pitched haphazardly south of the chantry. She didn’t remember when the tavern had run out of rooms, only that she went to fetch water from the well and found farmhands and merchants being turned away from the door. Now, she most vividly remembered the sourness of a crowd pressed together in a limited space.

On her way back to chantry after distributing supplies, a shout from a merchant cart stopped Leliana in her tracks and coaxed her closer to the commotion. One of the lay sisters pointed an accusing finger at a merchant, who in turn slapped the hand away. Their audience, two figures in dark hooded cloaks and a dark-haired woman, began to back away. But the sister caught the arm of the shorter cloaked figure.

A wink of steel. Then a growl, a yelp. The sister found herself staring down her nose at a thin blade, and the merchant was pressed against his wagon by a snarling mabari. A thrum of excitement raced up Leliana’s spine, but she was quick to stomp it down with a shake of her head.

“Easy, now. We don’t want more attention.” This came from the tallest figure, who had strapped a shield onto his pack. A man, from the timbre of the voice.

“Call off your mutt!” the merchant pleaded, palms raised.

The knife left the sister’s skin, and Leliana heard the relieved sigh from both the sister and the tall man.

The blade disappeared under the cloak—almost as if it was never drawn, and out came a soft voice. “Lower your price, and I will. The quicker you sell your wares, the sooner you leave the village.”

The merchant’s face twisted as his eyes flicked to the hound, then at its master. They glanced at the other two figures and found no ally. “Fine. Fine, I’ll charge like I did before this mess.”

A small hand on top of the hound’s head was all it took to make it plop on its haunches. Leliana marveled at that. Mabari were said to be highly intelligent animals and chose their masters carefully. And here was a great war hound, letting go of its quarry as soon as it was told to do so.

“Thank you for your generous assistance,” the sister said, gaining the attention of the hound-master. Leliana could not see the face, but she noticed the widening of the sister’s eyes and the small step she took away from the person who just helped her.

“I’ll ask you not to grab me like that again,” the figure said. “I could have hurt you.”

The tall man hummed. “I’ll make a note of that too.”

The sister blinked, then, struggled for words, blessed them instead.

“’Tis unnecessary,” said the dark-haired woman wrapped in a burgundy bodice. “I’ve survived without your Maker’s guidance, and I shall continue to do so.”

Finally, the three people and the hound turned toward the direction of the tavern. Leliana’s eyes fell first on the stave the dark-haired woman held, second on the glint of breastplate under the man’s cloak, third on the red markings on the hound-master’s face. None of them were injured. Or at least, Leliana could detect no signs of bodily pain aside from a scowl on the hound-master. But that could be due to being grabbed, or even because of the sorry state the village was in. Leliana watched them pause at the chantry board; were they mercenaries? The man was clearly a warrior, with his plate armor and shield; and the tall woman could be a mage, for she didn’t use the stave as walking stick. And the hound-master with the markings on the face?

Leliana shook her head. What did it matter? They would flee from the village before the sun sank. Gathering her robe, she hurried past the trio and the dog and dove back into the chantry. Her thoughts of roses and strange people pushed under a pile of duties.

A bang almost shook the ladle from Leliana’s hand as Fabian, the young wood carter, burst into the kitchen wide eyed and panting. Cook Mathilde wiped onions off her hands on her apron then pinched the boy’s ear.

“Wha’ did I tell ya ‘bout bargin’ in like tha’?”

The boy squirmed free, rubbing his reddening ear. “It’s tha’ roses, ma! They’re bloomin’. Well, on’a them is.”

Leliana dropped the ladle, set another bowl of soup on the tray. Untying her apron, she knelt in front of Fabian. “Do you mean the rose bush in the back garden? They have been dead for years.”

Fabian looked to his mother, then at Leliana. “I’m not lyin’, I swear.”

“No need to for that, young man.” She gave the boy a pat on the head as she jogged past him and the cook, who shook her head.

Could it be possible that a rose had grown after years of decay? She had checked daily for three days and found nothing, but on the day that she didn’t bother to do so, a child claimed to have seen a bud. Was the Maker testing her? What was He trying to tell her?

Heat had risen to Leliana’s cheeks by the time she skidded to a halt at the garden wall. What remained of her breath left her lungs in a puff as her eyes picked out a small white spot among dark skeletal thorns. She approached slowly, as though her mere shadow could wilt the bud. Three paces, two, then she was kneeling in front of a flower no larger than her pinky. If she closed her eyes, she could almost smell its sweetness. In the darkness behind her eyelids, she saw the petals open, as though to welcome spring. Spring, life, hope. There was hope in the darkness. Is that what the Maker wanted her to know? That she should not give up in helping however she can? Or was it that after the Fifth Blight burns the world to cinders, new life will grow? Leliana reached out; instead of seeing her fingers trembling as her breath did, Leliana blinked at a pale steady hand hovering over white petals. She decided then that she would dedicate her life to do the Maker’s will. If only she understood what the vision meant.

When the door opened to the tavern the next day, Leliana almost spat water onto the refugee she shared a table with. She had thought little else other than the rose in her dreams and the new roses in the garden. Roses. By the Maker’s blessing, another bud sprouted sometime in the night and greeted Leliana in the morning. Between her reverie and shock, she had entirely forgotten about the strange group who arrived yesterday. That is, until they strolled into the buzzing Dane’s Refuge. Leliana was suddenly thankful for being seated at the tiny table on the second floor: the vantage gave her a clear view of all their movement.

As it was yesterday, only the dark-haired woman did not wear a cloak. Heads turned as the dog lead the way to a table close to the bar, which put the group almost directly under Leliana. On one of the larger tables by the fire, five soldiers stopped their drinking to watch the group sit with the farmer Barlin. There was too much noise inside that Leliana could not track their conversation, though she understood the exchange: three flasks of green liquid from the trio for a clinking pouch from the farmer.

The cloaked man reached for the pouch, the five soldiers stood, the dog’s ears perked. A grunt next to Leliana pulled her eyes toward her table mate.

“I know those soldiers,” the man said around a thick dark beard. “Loghain’s men.”

He spat the name as viciously as he tore bread between calloused, grimy fingers. The scrape of wood against wood drew Leliana’s eyes back to the floor below. Barlin had gone, and in his place one of the Teyrn’s men stood. None of the patrons touched their drink or food.

“You know,” the leader of the soldiers said, palms flat on the table as he loomed over the hound-master, “we spent all morning asking about an elf in your exact appearance, and everyone said they hadn’t seen one.”

An elf? Leliana sat straighter, almost leaning on the balustrade. Those closer to the door began filing through it, tiptoeing or bowing to avoid attention. They need not bothered, for the soldiers found who they wanted. Leliana slipped a table knife up her sleeve then made her way to the stairs.

“I’d been asking about Loghain’s men,” said the cloaked man as he got up from his chair and stood behind his cloaked companion. “But no one had seen them in Ostagar.”

The dark-haired woman was about to open her mouth, but Leliana cut her off. “Gentlemen, surely there is no need for trouble. These are no doubt simply poor souls seeking refuge.”

Leliana smiled kindly, even as more patrons escaped the tavern. Even the barkeep was nowhere to be seen. From the corner of her eyes, she saw the supposed elf leaned back on the chair, bracing a bare foot against the edge of the table.

The soldier turned on Leliana with a growl. “They’re more than that. Now stay out of our way, Sister. You protect these traitors, you’ll get the same as them.”

“The Wardens did not betray the king. Our order died with him.” The soft voice was punctuated by the mabari’s bark, which made two of the soldiers flinch.

Leliana's eyes widened. Were they truly Grey Wardens?

“Enough talk,” said the soldier, then turned to his men. “Take the Wardens into custody. Kill anyone else that gets in your way.”

His lieutenant nodded. “You, Sister, step aw—”

The table slammed into the man’s crotch and he doubled over with a howl. The captain stumbled back, hand flying to his sword. A _ clink _ to the right warned Leliana to duck. As a sword whistled over her head, Leliana flipped the knife onto her palm, spun, and stabbed behind the man’s knee. He crashed to the floor, cursing at her. Standing, she kicked the soldier’s temple and knocked him out. Leliana turned in time to see a soldier ran at her, only to freeze as violet sparks jumped across his body. He convulsed, eyes and mouth wide in a silent scream, then dropped to the floor. Bolts of lightning arched from his body to the dark-haired woman’s fingertips. In the middle of the room, the tall warrior leapt aside from a dagger’s downward swing, hooked his arm through the soldier’s, spun behind him, and, with a hand on the soldier’s shoulder, rammed him into the wall. The soldier clanked to the ground and didn’t move again. By the bar, the lieutenant lay on his side, whimpering. Paralyzed by the blow to his most sensitive parts and by the mabari snarling against his neck.

“Anvil,” the warrior called.

The mabari’s ears twitched, and it took its fangs off the soldier but kept snarling.

“I don’t see Mahariel,” said the dark-haired mage.

A clang and a shout rang from somewhere behind the bar. As Leliana, the warrior, and the mage ran toward it, a grey tuft of hair appeared amid a shelf of mugs and plates made of wood or pewter. He lifted a trembling hand and pointed behind him. A door. The warrior reached it first, pushed it open without hesitation or a drawn weapon. Boxes and fruits cluttered the floor. Flour, spices, a rolling pin, and whatever had been on table also joined the ground; and in their place, bent over the counter, was the captain.

“Maker’s breath,” the warrior said, joining the elf’s side. For his companion was, as the soldiers had accused, an elf. “Is he dead?”

In answer, the elf pulled the captain’s hair to lift his head. A gash bled down his cheek, swollen eyes jumped from one face to the other. Leliana frowned as she noted the brown powder that crusted around the captain's eyes.

“I said we surrender,” he croaked.

“Yes,” the mage drawled, leaning on the door jamb. “Your men told us as much when they failed to rise from the floor.”

“What?” the captain hissed.

A frown creased the elf’s brow. “Dead?”

“Unconscious,” said the warrior. The captain’s shoulders relaxed at that.

“We can all stop fighting now,” said Leliana. Four pairs of eyes landed on her. At that moment, she felt as if she intruded on their conversation. Yet she didn’t leave or take back her words. There would be no more bloodshed if she could help it. “They’ve learned their lesson.”

The elf’s eyes fell to the captain. She released her hold on him and stepped back. “Loghain ordered the bounty on the Wardens?”

The captain, though leaning on the counter for support, nodded vigorously. “The Teyrn declared all Wardens traitors and must be brought to Denerim.”

“What is he thinking? The Wardens are the only chance to defeat the Blight.” Crossing his arms, the warrior paced the small kitchen. “What else has Loghain done? What of the Banns and the Arls? Have they heard about what happened in Ostagar?”

Again, the captain nodded, then jutted his chin at his belt. “They’ve heard. And all those nobles are going to war over it.”

“A war,” Leliana repeated as the elf plucked a note from the captain’s belt. “Even as the darkspawn threaten everyone?”

“Because the Teyrn doesn’t believe this is a Blight,” the warrior said, the muscles in his jaw writhing. “Or he believes he alone can stop it. He’s wrong on both counts.”

A sigh from the mage. “’Tis irrelevant at the moment. Shall we focus instead on what to do with these so-called soldiers and be done with this village?”

Leliana looked the elf in the eye, then did the same to the warrior. “There’s already enough violence in the kingdom as is.”

The two shared a look, then the elf turned to the captain, who did his best to stand properly.

“Take a message to Loghain. Tell him that the Wardens are not the enemy. Tell him that the last two Grey Wardens in Ferelden spared your life.”

As the soldier bowed and limped out the door, an image flashed in Leliana’s mind: a vision of two white roses amid black thorns.

Leliana followed the Wardens out of Dane’s Refuge and into the noon sun. They walked in silence, feet calm and arms swaying with their stride, as though the brawl did not happen. Just as the Wardens crested the bridge that connected the village center to the outskirts, Leliana cleared her throat. Three pairs of eyes turned to her.

“I apologize for interfering,” Leliana began, bracing a hand on the brick railing. “I couldn’t just sit by and not help.”

The warrior, who had introduced himself as Alistair, shrugged. “We appreciate it.”

The dark-haired mage scoffed. “Though it was not needed.”

Between the two, Mahariel, the elvhen Warden, sighed. “Thank you. Where does a Sister learn to wield a knife?”

Leliana gave a polite smile. “Shall we say, I was not always a lay sister in Lothering’s chantry. One is not born a Sister, no? I am Leliana. They said you are Grey Wardens. I’ve heard accounts of the battle at Ostagar from the soldiers who managed to survive—” Mahariel and Alistair glanced at each other “—which is why I know you need all the help you can get. That is why I decided to come along.”

Silence. Another fleeting glance between Mahariel and Alistair. Leliana should learn to interpret those looks soon.

“We do need help,” Alistair said cautiously.

Leliana nodded in agreement. “That and the Maker wants me to go with you.”

Alistair and the mage laughed, the first thing they seemed to agree on. Though the former’s laugh was amused, unlike the latter’s derisive tone. Mahariel simply stared at her. No ridicule, no acceptance.

“Can you elaborate?”

At least one of them was willing to listen. Leliana told Mahariel of her vision, of the dead flowers that began blooming upon their arrival in Lothering. She expected their reactions—Alistair’s knitted brow, Morrigan’s sneer, Mahariel’s blank look. After all, it was Leliana who first questioned her own sanity. But now more than ever, she believed her dreams; such perfect coincidences could only be the hand of the Maker. Not even the best player of the game can manipulate all the independent pieces that was their little group toward a single goal. No, such power only belonged to the divine.

“By serving you,” Leliana said, “I serve His holy plan.” None of the three looked convinced, and the dog was content to lie on the ground. “I do not need you to believe me, though that would be marvelous. I only ask that you allow me to travel with you.”

Silence descended again as dark violet eyes scanned her from head to toe. Mahariel’s face remained blank, and it reminded Leliana of the masks she had seen every day in Orlais. The elf even had the delicate features of porcelain—fair skin, slanted eyes, small nose, plump lips, soft jaws. A hard contrast against the sharp lines of the angry red markings on her face.

Finally, a nod.

Leliana clasped her hands under her chin, unable to stop a smile. "Oh, thank you! I promise you will not regret this."

The mage snorted, eyes on Mahariel. “Perhaps your skull was cracked worse than mother thought.”

Mahariel merely shrugged and told Leliana that they’d be leaving in an hour. Leliana was too relieved and eager to mind the comment on her joining the group and thanked Mahariel again instead, and promised not to let her down. For the first time in years, since leaving her life in Orlais and submitting herself to the Chantry, Leliana felt solid purpose under her feet. She may not be able to help the people of Lothering or the people in the next village, but she can see to it that the Grey Wardens succeeded in their mission to stop the Blight, for that will ultimately save more people than in any village, city, or town. This was her place, with the two surviving Wardens in Ferelden. She understood what the Maker wanted from her, and she would gladly give it.


	10. Sten of the Beresaad

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the most miserable, desperate village in south Ferelden, Mahariel finds a rare opportunity: meeting a Qunari.

Mahariel had taken one look at squat thatched huts, the single wobbling windmill, and the clunky tents pitched on every open space in the village of Lothering and her throat locked itself, gagged in anticipation of the sourness that surely followed any unwashed tightly packed group. And the group that crammed themselves within Lothering’s six-foot-high palisade was indeed unpleasant; and unfortunately, it was not only in matters of hygiene. Frustration, anger, and fear clung low to the churned soil, continuously stirred by cries of babies and muffled sobs of adults. Sharp notes, raised voices, thuds. Crack of wood against wood. The noise went on throughout the day, not dampened by the heavy smoke from dozens of cookfires; the village noise even reached the outskirts, where only giant spiders nested. By nightfall, the voices of misery only doubled as labour took to its bed. That one night camped at the foot of some combination of highway and bridge that lead to the Imperial Highway, surrounded by sounds—both unfamiliar and mournful—Mahariel wished she could fall unconscious just so she wouldn’t pack her bag and leave for the Brecilian Forest. 

Now, as Mahariel sat on the railing of the only bridge in the entire village, watching the sun fan away the most tenacious of the day’s mist, her gut performed an uneasy flip at the thought of leaving. No, that wasn’t quite right; her feet itched to take to the road, and if it weren't for her companions taking their time to resupply, she’d have left without turning back. No, the problem was _ what _ was behind them. Surely the darkspawn were moving north, or at least they will once the sun left the sky again; and when they break out of the Korcari Wilds, some of them will stumble into Lothering. It was as the widowed man raved in front of the chantry doors: the darkness will come for them. Yet Mahariel had talked the man into silence, into holding onto hope, even when she knew time did not favour Lothering’s rescue. Many other villages would likely fall to the darkspawn—whether it be by lack of protection like Lothering or by being outnumbered like Ostagar—and more homes will continue to burn and people will continue to be slaughtered until Mahariel and Alistair killed the archdemon and ended the Blight. 

A junior Warden and a recruit, accompanied by a mabari, a Witch of the Wilds, and a lay sister, were supposed to save Ferelden and the rest of Thedas.

“I’m living in one of Elder Cygan’s tragic epics,” Mahariel told Anvil, who got off his belly and barked once, eyes so focused on Mahariel’s face that she was a nod away from believing the mabari could truly understand elvhen. “And you’re one of the fools who follow the unwilling hero.”

The hound barked—louder, sharper—his voice rumbled in his broad chest.

“I jest, friend.”

Anvil huffed, shook his head. Then his snout shot into the air, flaring as his head turned left then right. Anvil locked eyes with Mahariel, pawed the ground, then turned north, toward the outskirts of the village. He barked once, soft yet urgent.

Mahariel glanced over her shoulder and only saw the drawn faces of women rushing among the refugees and the grim eyes of farmers wielding hoes or picks as weapons. No bob of red hair, no broad shoulders towering over the crowd, no swath of bright maroon shawl. “Alright. Lead the way, Anvil.” 

As Mahariel followed Anvil across the small front courtyard of Dane’s Refuge, yet another group of cutting voices flicked her ears.

“I saw you take the supplies from my cart!” complained a man. It was the third variation of the most popular complaint in Lothering. 

“Your grassland eyes are inept,” said another man. “A Chasind would never stoop to petty theft!”

Chasind? Mahariel patted Anvil to stop, then sat on one of the low mossy benches by the side of the tavern. Behind her, light snoring came from within the tent that was wedged between the tavern’s wall and log fence, which chopped the arguing voices at every other word; but the group stood in the middle of the dirt road with no tree to climb or to hide behind. So Mahariel stretched her legs, kept her eyes on the group, and strained her ears.

“You marsh folk are all thieves and liars!” the supply man yelled again.

Mahariel raised an eyebrow at that. How did it make her feel, learning that shemlen were intolerant of other shemlen who lived differently than them? Adjectives swirled in Mahariel’s mind but instead of plucking one of them, she let them vaguely drift away; two days in a human village was too early to be judging all humans. 

“Enough!” A new, nasally voice yelled over the Chasind’s half-yelled indignation. “People here are already desperate and frightened. They don’t need you two coming to blows!”

Mahariel leaned forward to see past the Chasind trio and found herself looking at a man in full plate armor with a flaming sword engraved on the chestplate. Another Templar. The only other templar not standing around inside the chantry. Creators, the village would be swallowed by the darkspawn.

The supply man gripped the templar’s arm. “But what about my food!”

“I said enough!” The Templar swung his arms at the group, shooing them all back into the village proper. 

The supply man passed Mahariel first, shoulders slumped and clothes tattered. His eyes were on the dirt his dragging feet kicked up as he grumbled his way toward the bridge. Then came the three Chasind, two men and one woman, all in hard leather armor. Mahariel leaned her head back against the fence, eyes heavy-lidded to appear asleep but open enough to peek under her lashes. The dark skin of the Chasinds’ arms and legs were bare to the cold, crosshatched by old stitches. As Mahariel focused on their faces, her shoulders fell: no waves of purple and yellow powdery paint,

Oh, the irony of it all. Four years ago, Mahariel and Namassa—her mentor—had been caught by a Chasind tribe after three months of isolated, uninterrupted survival training in the Korcari Wilds. The timing of their capture itself was suspicious; why show themselves after three months of not crossing each other’s path? Why bring Mahariel and Namassa into their village if the Dalish actively avoided Chasind territory? And then the witch-child with pure white eyes and purple-and-yellow painted face had crept into Mahariel’s cell, talked of blood and fever. Of burning. Mahariel hadn’t had time for questions then, but now her questions multiplied with every step she took away from Ostagar, and she still didn’t seem to have the time. Or luck. Or another Mahariel to send into the Wilds to search for the witch-child while she gathered an army.

If Mahariel had only known that the witch-child spoke of the darkspawn taint, if she had put more time into learning exactly what were the flowers the witch had gifted perhaps...Mahariel sighed, sagged against the fence that backed the bench. Beside her, on his haunches, Anvil whined. Even if Mahariel realized what the witch-child spoke of, would she have known to avoid the ruins specifically? Would she have known where or how they would come across the taint? Or would the knowledge that one day Tamlen would disappear and she would fall to the blight keep her bound to camp? No curiosity, no adventure, no risk. Mahariel’s stomach roiled. Who would Tamlen be, if he didn’t have those three. Who would she be?

Mahariel dropped a hand onto her mabari’s head, thumb stretching the fold of skin between the hound’s closed eyes. “What do you know about magical mirrors, Anvil?”

Anvil pushed his head harder against Mahariel’s hand and let out a long low whine, punctuated by a curt bark. He rose to all fours—snout in the air again—then turned to the northern gate of the village. His stubby tail tapped an excited beat against Mahariel’s knee. 

“Still on the hunt?”

An affirmative bark, accompanied by a lolling tongue. 

Mahariel waved her hand and Anvil set out at a trot. Despite the light traffic Anvil’s head never once swivelled away from his goal, not even to give a curious glance at the children who ran past them yelling ‘puppy!’ while they tried to pull each other’s clothing. Alistair had said that mabari were bred for their intelligence as much as their strength, but just how intelligent were they? Enough to understand elvhen, apparently. 

Anvil led Mahariel past the zigzagged palisade of Lothering’s northern border and turned left, toward the highway-bridge with its towering broken arches. Everything seemed broken in these parts of the kingdom. Before they got halfway to the ramp that led to the highway, Anvil slowed his trot and plopped his backside in front of a large circular cage. Mahariel halved her pace, for it wasn’t a giant bird trapped within steel bars, but a giant man whose eyes watched her.

Mahariel held his gaze as she approached and found herself tilting her head all the way back just to look at the man’s stony face. And here she thought Alistair was huge.

“You aren’t one of my captors,” the man in the cage rasped, throat constricting as he swallowed. Or tried to. “I have nothing to say that would amuse you, elf. Leave me in peace.”

Mahariel didn’t move. The man didn’t need to say anything to rouse her amusement or interest. Aside from the fact that he was imprisoned in a cage outside the village with only a thin tunic and breeches, his staggering size drew attention to him. As Mahariel leveled her eyes straight ahead, her view was filled by the slow rise and fall of the man’s chest. To think that she believed Alistair’s height and width to be rare, an excess gifted only to him. 

Mahariel took two steps back, lest she hurt her neck trying to look the man in the eyes again. By the Creators, the man had violet eyes, only three or four shades lighter than her own. And his ears! They ended in sharp points, shorter and less pronounced than Mahariel’s. His hair, which was braided into six tight rows, was white, a harsh contrast to the dark brown of his skin. Not human, not elf, certainly not a dwarf; then, Qunari? But no horns. Mahariel stared at the man just as he stared at her—silent and neutral. From the stains and faded cream of his tunic, not to mention the sour tinge of sweat and urine, the man spent more than two days in that cage. 

Slowly, Mahariel unstrung the waterskin from her belt and squeezed it between two bars. “What are you?”

The man eyed the offered drink, but he remained unmoving. “A prisoner—” Mahariel chuckled “—I’m in a cage, am I not? I’ve been placed here by the Chantry.”

Mahariel looped the string around a bar, letting the waterskin sway back and forth between her chest and the man’s hip. “For what reason?”

The man frowned, stepped back as far as his prison allowed. “I have been convicted of murder. Have the villagers not spoken of this?”

Murder. The villagers spoke plenty of death, like the fleeing people preyed on by bandits. And then there was Ser Henric, a Redcliffe Knight whose body Mahariel had tripped over, a discovery that led to Ser Donall’s news—No, no. That was a problem for later. Mahariel resisted the urge to run a hand down her face. “Who did you murder?”

Anvil barked, drawing the man’s eyes to him. When the man returned his attention to Mahariel, his face was the same hard, blank stone. “The people of a farmhold. Eight humans, in addition to the children.”

Either the man was lying, or he felt nothing about the murder. Mahariel pulled her waterskin back, drank two gulps of water, then re-tied the bag on her belt. “Are you guilty?”

“Are you asking if I feel guilt, or if I’m responsible for the deed?”

Mahariel chuckled. “If you answer yes to the first, doesn’t that mean an automatic yes for the second? Unless you feel guilt over actions that are not your own.”

The man frowned. “However I feel, whatever I’ve done, my life is forfeit now.”

Mahariel scoffed. Vague as the man tried to be, his utter acceptance of his punishment seemed proof enough of his regret about the killing. Or at the very least, his guilt in the crime. Or was that regret about being caught? “Capturing you must not have been easy.” 

The man grunted. “There is no difficulty in capturing prey that surrenders.”

Ah, so there _ was _ emotional guilt after all. 

The man scowled again, eyes on Mahariel’s mouth, and she realized she was smiling a little.

“How long have you been here?”

“Twenty days now. I shouldn't last much longer. Another week at most.”

Despite everything the man confessed, Mahariel moved closer. This man must be sturdy if he survived two weeks with no food or shelter in a space where he’d have to push his arms through squares the steel bars made if he wanted a stretch. But he knew his limit and he had little time. Mahariel circled the cage until she arrived at the door, where a heavy but simple lock prevented the door lever from being pulled aside. Mahariel ran a thumb over the keyhole—rather wide. Wider than any locks Keeper Marethari used for her book trunk.

Pressing against the bars, Mahariel looked at the man again. “Aren’t you interested in atonement?”

“Death will be my atonement.”

How grim of him, not that Mahariel expected anything different from a man with heavily lined brows and jowls. Loghain’s face flashed in Mahariel’s mind, and she frowned. “There are other more productive ways to atone.”

One of the man’s thick eyebrows twitched. “I would prefer to die in battle, but my choices have been made.”

Something bubbled in Mahariel’s gut, and the better part of her refused to call it glee. There was no delight in the prisoner’s crime, no pleasure in Mahariel’s newly-sworn duty. But if fate threw a malleable coincidence at her feet, then Mahariel would shape it to her purpose.

“What do you know of the Blight?” Mahariel asked.

The man pushed off from the bars he leaned on. His eyes, deep-set as they were, turned darker, as for the first time, he looked at Mahariel with interest. “The Blight? Are you a Grey Warden then?” His eyes jumped to the blades strapped on her hips, then the bow on her back, then to the war hound sitting on his haunches by her feet. “My people have heard legends of the Grey Wardens’ strength and skill...though I suppose not every legend is true.”

Mahariel laughed, which made the man’s brow twist even more. True, she had no deep knowledge on how to be a Warden—void take her, she couldn’t even sense darkspawn yet. But she evaded death four times just in the past week, and that had to speak for her luck. As the hunters of her clan loved to say: skill and cunning meant nothing if you had rotten luck. “How about it? Stopping the Blight should be enough atonement for you.”

For three seconds the man kept mute and merely stared Mahariel in the eyes, his jaw clenched and brow furrowed.

“This is your last chance to die in battle,” Mahariel joked.

With a grunt, the man wrapped his large hands around the bars just in front of Mahariel’s face. Head bent down to her and voice low, he said, “Very well. Joining you seems likely to bring my death as waiting here. Perhaps if you told the reverend mother the Grey Wardens need my assistance, she would release me to you.”

Instead of running to the chantry for a favour, Mahariel pulled the pin of the cuff on her right ear. She felt the Qunari’s eyes follow her movements as she opened the silver tube on her palm and dragged a hook pick from the inside pocket with her nail. Pocketing the two pieces of her earcuffs, Mahariel gave the man a nod. “This shouldn’t take long.”

It took less than a minute before Mahariel eased the padlock from the door’s handle and threw it to the ground. As she swung the door wide open, it shrieked and grated in protest. Or perhaps in celebration. The man strode out of the cage and rose to his full height, stretched his arms over his head as he bent left, then right. Mahariel thought she heard a few pops from his spine.

“I am Mahariel. Pleased to meet you.” But mostly, she was lucky to meet a warrior who wasn’t afraid to die by darkspawn hands.

Finished with his stretching, the man glanced at her from the corner of his eyes. “You mock me. Or you show manners I have not come to expect in your lands.”

“Human lands.”

The man, who seemed even bigger now that he was out of the cage, grumbled low in his chest. Then he faced her fully. “Mahariel. I shall follow into battle. In doing so, I shall find my atonement.”

Mahariel inclined her head. “Your help is appreciated...” And perhaps desperately needed.

“I am Sten of the Beresaad. Vanguard of the Qunari peoples.”

“So you _ are _ Qunari.” Mahariel smiled. When hahren Paivel spoke of the horned giants waging war against Tevinter, he really had meant an entire species of huge people. Though apparently not all of them had horns. “Wait. Vanguard?”

Before Sten could answer, Anvil jumped to his feet and bolted toward the village gate. Alistair emerged first, crouching a little to welcome Anvil with a pat. Behind him came Leliana, no longer dressed in orange chantry robes but in leathers, a full pack on her back. A neck of a lute stuck out over her left shoulder while white fletching peeked from the right. On her left hand was a recurve bow, its arms painted red.

“I assume they are your companions,” Sten said just as Alistair looked up and found Mahariel.

“And now yours.”

Sten’s grunt brought a tiny smile to Mahariel’s lips. A smile that quickly faded as Alistair and the others approached them. Even from a from a hundred or so meters away Mahariel could already see the line that creased Leliana’s fine brows, the glances Alistair bounced back and forth between the cage and the giant beside Mahariel, and the curl at the tips of Morrigan’s painted lips.

“Mahariel...” Leliana began as they crowded in. 

Mahariel gestured to the Qunari at her shoulder. “This is Sten of the Beresaad. He will be travelling with us.” From the looks on all their faces Mahariel knew all three of her companions already knew where she found Sten. The open cage was behind Mahariel after all, and a filthy man stood next to her. 

“Right,” Alistair said. “The tone of your voice says this isn’t up for debate. It isn’t up for debate, right?”

Mahariel shook her head as she locked the cuff back around her ear. 

“This is a proud and powerful creature,” Morrigan said, glaring at Alistair. “Trapped as prey for the darkspawn. I see you found a use for him, Mahariel.”

Alistair scrunched his nose at Morrigan at the same time Mahariel asked, “You approve, Morrigan?”

The mage scoffed. “Had you not released him, I would suggest putting him out of his misery, for mercy’s sake.”

“Mercy?” Alistair raised an eyebrow, squinting over his shoulder at Morrigan.

“And I suggest Alistair take his place in the cage.”

"Ah!" Alistair nodded. “Now that's what I’d expect from you.”

Sten, grim and towering over them all, sighed. “May we proceed? I’m eager to be elsewhere.”

“As am I,” Mahariel said, in a higher spirit already. The deal went rather well, considering Sten was a convicted murderer and Mahariel knew nothing about him or his people. Was it luck that it was Sten in that cage, and not an uncooperative ruthless killer? Was it luck that trapped him for Anvil to find? Or was this coincidence put there by fate? Or perhaps Flemeth pulling on strings? And what of Leliana, who joined their group because she claimed the Maker told her to? Mahariel stewed at the thought. Better to credit luck than start believing in fate; the latter gripped too tight and chafed roughly as a collar. 

As palisade gave way to trees and shrubs, the air grew lighter as it was freed from human settlement. Poor Lothering. Mahariel was glad she would not be there to watch what became of it. But perhaps she should witness the destruction darkspawn could cause; she was meant to fight them, yet she knew the bare minimum about the creatures. Plus, the beat of her heart was too stable, too calm, too complacent. King Cailan did not believe this was a Blight, now he was dead. Yet Duncan knew, and he was dead too.

A cold nose pressed against Mahariel’s hand. Smiling, she rested her palm on her mabari’s head and whispered to him in elvhen. “You’ve recruited a warrior, Anvil. Well done.”

Anvil barked, proud and smug. As Mahariel shook her head in wonder of how the hound understood elvhen words, she caught Leliana picking up her pace. Within two heartbeats the former lay sister caught up to her and stuck close to her right side.

“May I speak with you as we walk?” she asked.

Mahariel turned slightly to her, which gave her a glimpse of Sten at the far back of the group, just behind Morrigan. “About Sten.”

Leliana nodded, eyes forward. “Did he tell you why he was in that cage?”

“For murder.” The quick flick of Leliana’s eyes to Mahariel’s face made the latter raise an eyebrow. “Sten was rather forthright about everything.”

Warmth pressed behind Mahariel, followed by a low voice. “And you thought, hey he’s pretty honest. I’m sure I could trust him not to murder me next.”

Instead of craning her neck yet again to look up at Alistair, Mahariel waved Anvil to move forward so Alistair could take his place on her left side. “He is a warrior and he is eager to die in battle. And we need all the help we can get.” She aimed that last part at Alistair, who grunted.

“It makes me wonder what the kind of stray we pick up says about us.”

“Stray?” Leliana said, the same time Mahariel asked, “Us, you mean the Wardens?”

Alistair chucked. “Yes, stray. And yes, I mean the Wardens. You do know Daveth was a thief, right?”

Leliana frowned, head tilted toward Alistair. “It is said that the Wardens do not discriminate and that they welcome all who are willing.”

As well as the unwilling. But Mahariel kept her thoughts.

“Yes,” Alistair answered Leliana. “But Sten isn’t joining the Wardens, is he? He’s just, I don’t know. A tag-along murderer.”

Mahariel gave Alistair a firm look. “He waited for the knights to take him, Alistair. He let himself be captured. That means something.”

For a moment Alistair held her gaze, eyes questioning. Then he nodded. “Fair enough. I’m not sharing a tent with him, though.”

Mahariel chuckled. “Fair enough. And you, Leliana? Concerns?”

The woman shook her head, red hair falling into her eyes. “I suppose not. To be left to starve or to be taken by darkspawn, no one deserves that. Not even a murderer.”

Mahariel studied Leliana one second longer than she ought to, which made her accidentally catch her eye. Perhaps whatever good the chantry lauded itself on was genuine in Leliana. “I didn’t say this earlier. Thank you for helping us.”

The woman smiled, brushed her short hair behind an ear as the wind blew again. Mahariel sniffed and Anvil’s head snapped up. Was that sweat and red meat? Anvil shot forward, belly low on the ground as a rumble started in his chest. Mahariel drew her bow and Alistair pulled his shield from his back.

“Hold on,” Leliana said as a figure jumped down the stone ramp of the highway. “They seem to be simple farmers.”

Mahariel doubted simple farmers congregated at village exits armed with swords, hoes, and pickaxes while their suspicious gazes watched people coming _ from _ the village. Aside from the man who sauntered to meet them, there were three others sitting on the railing, and four others who braced their shoulders on broken columns. All of them wore the drab colors and gaunt faces that all the refugees shared. Mahariel’s eyes flicked up, just in case some of them managed to climb and hide on the broken archways of the highway-bridge. If none hid in the bushes to their right, there were eight of them.

Leliana rushed past Anvil, a hand raised in greeting. The man groused something at her, to which she replied, “We are not here for trouble. We are leaving and will not return.”

The man, dark haired and bearded, shifted to the side to peer over Leliana’s shoulder, eyes landing on Alistair first, then on Mahariel. 

“Damn it,” Alistair sighed. “I knew this bounty will be a pain in the arse.”

As Alistair joined Leliana, Mahariel fell back to Sten’s side and offered him one of her blades. Sten merely eyed the blade, hummed, then shook his head.

“I shall acquire my own.”

How? Mahariel wanted to ask when Alistair’s frustrated grunt reached her ears. 

“It’s the gold you want, isn’t it?” Clinking came from the leather pouch he dangled in front of him. It was the same green pouch they had taken from the bandits who ‘tolled’ the bridge. “Like the sister said, take it and leave us be.”

“There is no need for blood,” Leliana added.

Yet her bow hand was poised to aim. Mahariel didn’t blame her. The other simple farmers already stood behind their leader, weapons raised. Mahariel moved father down Leliana’s right, where the angle allowed a view of all eight men together. The leader across Leliana, a young man with a pitchfork five feet behind him, an older man with a pickaxe slightly in front and to the left, next to a big middle-aged man holding a hammer. Two club-wielding brothers—twins—eyed Alistair far on the left side of the field, while the last two men stood to the right of Pitchfork Boy, broadswords pointed at Sten.

The leader scoffed and spat on the ground. “There is more coin in the bounty than in that purse.”

Sighing, Alistair slipped the pouch back into a pocket and drew his sword. Leliana jumped at the rasp of steel, but before she could try to dissuade the farmers again, Sten’s voice rumbled over them.

“Why are we waiting for the enemy to attack us?”

Morrigan's hum came from a few paces behind Mahariel. “An excellent question.”

Leliana turned to them. “Because they are desperate, not malicious.”

Sten glared at the spread of armed farmers before them. “Yet their desperation demands our lives.”

Was that pity in his voice? Mahariel glanced at the Qunari and saw the same hard features paired with steady eyes. Did he pity them or was he ready to kill? Perhaps both. Sten took a step forward and the farmer leader took a step back.

“We only want the Wardens.” He pointed with his sword. “The human warrior and the elf.”

A sharp click of the tongue drew Mahariel’s eyes to her left. Between her fingers, Leliana held two arrows, one nocked, one at the ready. She leveled her bow at the farmer leader, aimed at his arm. “I cannot allow that.”

As Leliana took a breath, Mahariel drew an arrow. As the farmer leader screamed, Sten charged past Mahariel, hunkered low as he rammed his shoulder into the man wielding the broadsword. Pitchfork Boy cocked an elbow to throw his tool-turned-weapon. Mahariel aimed, released, and the young man jerked back, hand flying to his shoulder. A curse rang from the far left, then a bark. At Alistair’s feet, one of the twins rolled on the ground, clutching his crotch; while the other lay under Anvil, bleeding arm tight against his chest. Mahariel readied another arrow only to find the remaining two men—old pickaxe man and big hammer man—frozen amidst their fallen companions. Sten approached Old Pickaxe, eyeing the man’s left foot which was in mid-air. Big Hammer’s mouth was open, twisted in a paused snarl.

“Magic,” Sten said, the grate of his voice making a curse out of the word.

“Let us be off. Lest more of the fools get the grand idea to waste our time,” Morrigan said, brushing past Mahariel as she strode toward the highway. 

Sten followed her, bending quickly to pick up the broadsword. Its former owner didn’t appear to be moving. Mahariel didn’t look too closely. 

With each press of Mahariel’s foot on wet grass, the groans and moans of those still conscious faded behind her. What did Sten say? Their desperation demanded their lives. If a bounty was all it took to convince farmers to attack four armed people, a seven foot tall heavily muscled man, and a war hound, then before the Blight ended, more men would come for them. Just as stubborn, just as desperate. And Mahariel might have to kill them all. _Fenedhis_. It was too easy to become a murderer in her world. 

When soil turned to stone, Mahariel turned and leaned a hip against the bridge’s wall. Her eyes roamed the squat thatched huts, the two watchtowers, the single wobbling windmill, the two-storey Dane’s Refuge, and all the dirty-white tents pitched in and around Lothering. Her throat locked itself, almost made her gag. 

A clink of armor announced Alistair’s approach before the man placed a warm hand on Mahariel’s back.

“They’ll die,” Mahariel said.

Alistair nodded. He hefted his pack higher, one hand lingering on a rounded pocket. “Not all of them, but yes. Those who can’t travel, those who can’t leave...”

Mahariel turned, locked eyes with Alistair. His gaze was dark, hard. Distracted. “You’re thinking about what Ser Donall said.”

His brow furrowed. “If Arl Eamon is as sick as they say...” Alistair rubbed a hand down his face.

Mahariel hooked her hand at the crook of Alistair’s elbows and coaxed him down the road. “Come, we must catch up with the others.” She gave his arm a squeeze. “Redcliffe is waiting.”

Alistair skidded to a stop, eyebrows raised. “But I thought we decided—your clan—”

Mahariel shook her head and pulled on Alistair again. They quickened their steps to rejoin their companions, and all the while they didn’t speak, Mahariel’s hand tight around Alistair’s arm. Her clan would be far north by then, north enough to glimpse the Waking Sea, at the opposite end of the map than Lothering. That was perhaps the safest place for her family.

If there was one good thing about the Dalish not having a permanent home, it was that they knew how to pack and leave at the blink of an eye. No trace, no stragglers, no one left behind. At least not until Tamlen.

**Author's Note:**

> As always, please feel free to point out typos and grammar mistakes and such. I always miss some no matter what.
> 
> And I very much welcome all feedback.


End file.
